Time

Time is something we all understand in one way or another, yet it often feels mysterious and elusive. I notice how sometimes it moves quickly, slipping through my fingers, while at other moments it drags so slowly I can almost feel each second. Throughout my life, I've measured time in countless ways. I've felt its quick passage when I am fully absorbed in the present, and its heaviness when waiting for something important to arrive.

As I work through the final pages of a book I've been writing--dotting the i's and crossing the t's after what feels like a very long journey--I am reminded of another period of waiting: the space between therapy appointments. I used to calculate the distance between sessions down to the second: 604,800 seconds, give or take 100,000 seconds depending on how the week unfolded.

Today, November 17th, is forty-six years since I witnessed my mom's last breath and said my goodbyes. That moment feels like forever ago and also like yesterday. How can both be true?

Most of my life is structured around this concept of time. I measure it, dream about it, save it for special things, spend it on what I love and sometimes wish it away. I wonder often if time is a physical dimension, a mental construct or something in-between. What I do know is that time is far more complex than the tick, tick, tick of a clock.

Time helps me distinguish between before from after, past from present from future. It is deeply subjective, and my psychological sense of time rarely alines with what the clock says. This summer, while traveling and having fun, time moved quickly. But during my eye surgery--when I had to lie face down for a week--it crawled. Being sidelined for the summer stretched time out painfully. And when I finally got permission to put my boat back on the water, the days between that moment and the onset of cold weather flew by.

When I am curious about time, I am reminded that our brains process information unevenly. New or emotionally rich events leave a denser train of memories, making them feel longer in hindsight. Lazy days kayaking in unfamiliar places, the laughter-filled mud run in Hamilton, the road trip marked by small discoveries--all of those moments hold vivid detail. But the hurried trip home to take care of my eye surgery felt short and compressed. And my weekend with the Robinson, filled with hundreds of loving moments, seemed to move far too fast.

Cultural perspectives shape our understanding of time as well. Some societies treat it as a scarce resource to be optimized ('time is money'), while others view it as cyclical or abundant. In communities that prioritize relationships over productivity, time flows more fluidly--measured by presence rather than precision. Now that I'm retired, I'm noticing how differently my days are structured, and I'm curious about what that means for my experience of time.

Aging affects how I process time, too. On top of that, the digital world delivers information instantly, shrinking the space between desire and gratification. I connect with people across the country every day on zoom. My inbox fills faster that I can manage. After the summer, I had over 5,000 unread emails; I carved out time to reduce them, only to watch the number climb again.

I often feel pulled in many directions, each demanding my time and attention. At the same time, something inside me longs to slow down and reconnect with something larger than myself. Perhaps it is time to prioritize what truly matters and return to my mindfulness practices.

Most days, I am gifted with a beach walk--a moment I inhabit the present. As I walk, I play with the illusion of slowing time down by moving gently or speeding it up by walking briskly. This daily ritual reminds me that while time marches forward steadily, my experience of it remains elastic.

Time is both universal constant and a deeply personal. While I stand in today, someone in Australia is already living in my tomorrow. Time is governed by the laws of physics yet shaped by emotions, culture, memory, and meaning. It flows relentlessly forward, but how it feels depends on how we live.

We may never control time, but perhaps by paying closer attention--by noticing how we spend our days, weeks, and months--we can cultivate a richer sense of it. Maybe we can align our experience of time with our values and aspirations, allowing it to feel more like a companion than a force we're constantly racing.