Day Three

I was sitting in front of my computer clicking the NEXT BLOG button when I realized that the second hand on my clock was making a very faint "tick tick tick" sound. Not a revelation. We all hear those sounds all of the time. But I was sitting in front of the computer clicking the NEXT BLOG button. Just sitting here and clicking. As soon as one loaded, I clicked. After about 300 "tick tick tick"s I awoke. And now I am clicking the various letter keys on my computer, and the clock is still ticking. I type faster, but the clock still ticks. What is that all about?

After years of reflection ... and I mean like a dozen years ... I have finally figured out why time moves so fast for me. Just whipping by. Just look at this blog!! About the art of slowing down. And there have been no posts in a year.

So time is moving at exactly the same rate as it was when I was 20. And 10. And 30. And 2. No change. Time is moving at the same rate it has been moving at for all of our lives. As I mentioned a year ago, it is mainly our perception of time that has changed.

But it is also age. And situation. It used to be that eleven o'clock at night was mid-day for me. My best work happened after 2:00am. About 3:30 or 4:00 I would finally give in to sleep, then up again by 9:00. Not any more. It's not that there IS less time in the day, but it is that I HAVE less time. It's past what has become my normal bedtime as I type this. My "best work" time has become my REM sleep time. I don't get to sleep until 9:00am anymore (generally up by 6:30 or so), but my internal clock still longs for those late nights. And the quantity of my work shows it. Age. Children. These things each cause time to compress. I still have 24 hours every day. I just sleep through more of it. But don't tell anyone. Okay?

Photo Flickred from NormaJean

Day Two

I had a time related story to share with you a few months ago, but am a bit embarrassed to say that my life got busy and time got away from me. Great chunks of hours disappeared in what seemed to be minutes, and before I knew it, weeks had gone by. Now, this is in spite of the fact that I was practicing at paying attention and was trying to stay focused on life in a moment by moment basis.

That which is noticeable about time is interpretive. Or perhaps perceptual. If time exists in space, how we move through it is based on our awareness of it. But lack of awareness does not stop time. On the contrary, an inverse relationship seems to exist and the more focused we are on it the more aware we are of its' passage and the more we are able to participate in it. The more we are able to participate in it, the fuller it becomes. The fuller it becomes, the more manageable it seems. Time moves at a speed based on our attention to the individual components that make up each second.

Or, more simply, time moves equally whether we are distracted by what we are doing or whether we are sitting quietly and listening to our heart beat. So it is not the passage which we affect, but it is our perception or interpretation of the passage.

And I am right back where I started a half an hour ago.

I had a time story to share with you, and wanted to see if I can somehow capture some of the emotional quality of it.

Last October I went home. Not really home, because the building I called home at age 10 is no longer there. But I went back to my hometown, which I had left nearly twenty five years ago.

I grew up in the midwest, Illinois, about 100 miles south of Chicago. I went back to visit my step-mother and the change of pace was evident immediately. But one afternoon was particularly delightful, and I felt so happy that I was able to notice it as it happened and participate fully. I will probably carry the memory of it with me for many years.

It is the little things, and this was the tiniest of things. I been doing some work at her house and had stopped to run an errand. When I got back, I found my stepmother sitting in her living room with a male friend. It turned out that they had known each other since I was in high school, and that he regularly had stopped by to visit with her and my father, before his passing.

Normally I might have gone off to finish my work, but I sat. And became aware at that instant that the timbre of time had changed. Instead of racing past me blindly, I could almost see it move in small increments moment to moment.

The story is very cliche, and I apologize for that, but it is also true. We sat for nearly an hour and chatted and I listened to stories about their youth and where they used to work and how they had known each other.

And then the doorbell rang, and her son joined us. And we sat and talked and laughed and listened until dusk.

There was something perfect in those moments. Like being handed a bottle of mountain stream water after walking along a hot and humid road. And time was respectful of what we were doing and, although it did not stand still, it most certainly did move slowly for us. Or, at least we perceived that it did.

Copyright©2005 J.D. Warrick