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two buses to the library because I suddenly felt the need to know everything possible about songwriter Cole Porter. I wanted to know about the man who wrote so many witty, fabulous songs that kept my mother and I singing year after year. I could barely wait to ponder the long and enormous library shelves, and the longer it took, the better.

There were no computers for me to Google Porter's name, only rows of books, some about writers and artists I'd never heard of, and some about people and things I'd wished I never heard of. But in the stillness of that Sunday- again, time seemed to stand still, and all I remember is spending a blissful eternity browsing through quiet nooks of endless books.

Memories of daydreaming also kept time at bay for me as it still does today, often saving me in the darkest of hours. There was no Internet, My Space or cell phones to remind me about who I needed to email or text-message, I had all the time in the world to imagine myself as a child living in a different country if I wanted, what I might be doing, and of course, what time it wasn't there.

At night I liked to keep my bedroom window open and watch the shadows that my curtains made on the walls. The fabric my mother sewed from was lace and had many cut-outs and shapes that made shadows, mimicking monsters and strange animals in the darkness. With each sweep they made as the Hawaiian trade winds stole through my room, I fell deeper into sleep and even deeper still, into dreaming.

The other day I was driving and suddenly noticed I had forgotten to turn the radio on as well as my watch. I suddenly felt hurried and frantic as no one and nothing was telling me what time it was and where I needed to be. The silence was deafening.

Panicked, I turned the radio on and Take Five by Dave Brubeck and his quartet came on. It was no coincidence. It was telling me to take time off the watch, reminding me once again how magical it felt to live in the moment.

And in this moment, I remembered the very paint strokes my father painted on his canvas to each note the quartet played when I watched him a couple of decades ago, but who's counting? Just for a moment, time stood still again.

Learn more about this author, Francesca Biller-Safran.
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