All Rivers Flow into the Universe
I have been slightly obsessed with the topic of time my entire life. My "obsession," perhaps more accurately framed as a fascination or preoccupation, has taken many forms. When I was a little kid, I worried a lot about my dad dying before everyone else's dad would. This early interface with time as it relates to impermanence was brought on because my dad, though vibrant and healthy, had a head full of white hair. To my young eyes, this meant the end was nearer for him than my friends' dads, who were one to two decades younger.
Then, as a teenager, I started my love affair with antiquing, which is admittedly not your average adolescent pastime. I became enchanted and intrigued by the human relationship with earth, time, work, and living, which is reflected through the changing use of objects through the ages. To this day, if I find an item that doesn’t that have a tag describing its use and era while pursuing an antique store, I feel frustrated! My favorite part is looking at an object and knowing how and when it was used. I'll reverently examine a dusty relic from the past, imagining the 1920s farmhouse kitchen it came from, standing motionless in the aisle, transported to a different way of living.
Today, my fascination takes on a studious bent, reading about how our modern relationship with time developed. (And that, my friends, is a fascinating story—maybe another blog post!) I also appreciate how time is seen through the lens of religion and spirituality. Across the world's treasure trove of religious and spiritual texts and traditions, explanations of time have helped give meaning to the cycles of life.
Ultimately, the human struggle to grasp the concept of time holds at its core our struggle with mortality and inability to square up with the truth of impermanence—especially our own. The ineffable yet simple fact that each moment is fleeting and intangible is infused with grief and uncertainty. If humans could capture time, somehow harness it and put it in a box, we would—and heaven only knows what we would do with it. But mankind cannot touch time; we can only respect it and bow to it. My own reverence has become an infatuation with the seasons and how nature keeps her own clock. I love that no matter how many witty gadgets we engineer, we still can't manipulate her rhythm.
For many of us, the things that perplex us are the things we chase. I see myself in the pursuit to comprehend time—and the human relationship with it—as I oscillate between clinging too tightly to it and attempting to hold it with a looser grip. When we are too precious with time, we live in a state of scarcity, always feeling that each moment must be experienced to the fullest or something extremely terrible will happen. I fear that the threat of the "terrible thing," whatever it is, means that many of us don't ever sit down, don't smell the proverbial roses, don't sip coffee while we stare out the window. (If you haven't read my blog Cuban Coffee: The Taste of Time, you might enjoy it.) When people say they are "just trying to make each moment count," this sentiment creates a kind of pressure to live efficiently worshipping at the feet of productivity. The great irony is that by doing more to make the minutes count, we become unintentionally absent for the very experiences we seek.
What if we were able to do less and be more.
Living with a sense of scarcity, which our productivity-based culture helps create, seems the surest way to live with anxiety clutched in our chests and a constant tension in our bellies—because as we grip each moment with clenched fists, we are inadvertently living in fear of losing that moment, not making the best of it, or worst of all, wasting it. The way we live, packing it all in, saying yes to too many things, and all at a pace too fast for true appreciation, creates a blur of tension and anxiety so forceful that we miss more than we notice, and then keep ever busier in the futile attempt to fill the emotional emptiness.
This is not being. This is doing.
This is not presence and attention, which, in fact, are the only two ways to live in tune with the ups and downs, joys and sorrows of a full life. Time is not something you can stack up like coins in a bank. It is like the wind, right here, right now, yet passing by. Sensory but invisible, happening but not bankable. You can't take it with you, use today's coin tomorrow, or listen to today's rainfall later. You can't offer the hug your child seeks right now, in the kitchen while you are stirring a pot and managing the oven, tomorrow while they are at school and you are at work. We can't live in our lives while racing ahead. We can't feel the soothing patter of raindrops or notice the warmth of our child's small body when we aren't present in that moment.
This is where I become particularly perplexed, flummoxed, and, at my worst, in despair. We have more “time-saving" devices and technology today than ever before, yet we say over and over again, "I just don't have time," and "I am just so busy," and then, to my amazement and great confusion, hop on our phones, and spend all that time we said we didn’t have on Instagram or Netflix without intention, without a thought, and without wondering how else we could be present in our lives.
Instead of unconsciously reaching for a screen, we could be with a friend. In nature. Cooking a homemade meal for our family. Sitting and staring off into space with a cup of hot tea in our hands, starting a new crafting project, working in the garden, walking the dog, fishing, writing a letter, calling a friend, making a birthday card for someone special, sitting in the warmth of the sun or the cool of the shade listening to birds, painting, drawing, strumming a guitar, or making banana bread.
Wouldn't any of these be more "productive" than spending our time on something we won't even remember in a week—or even one hour—from now, and certainly not on our deathbeds? No Instagram reel is that memorable, impactful, or important. If time is so precious, why do we often choose what we do with it so thoughtlessly?
As my mindfulness practice has gotten stronger, I notice how long the days feel—long in the best possible way. Mindfulness is defined most simply as the skill of choosing where our attention is focused. My mindfulness practice is changing the way I experience time and I often think about the expression, "Time flies when you are having fun," and I actually don't think it’s accurate. By intentionally slowing down and choosing where my attention is focused, I don't get lost in time; I become found. The days unfurl, and I notice their beauty, the simple moments of connection and peace. After practicing my skills in mindful living, I feel more like myself than at any other point in my life.
Defining Mindfulness: The process of attending to and being aware of experiences, whether positive, negative, or neutral.
Mindfulness is awareness, focused attention, and noticing whatever we are experiencing. In classical texts and teachings, mindfulness is described as the act of waking up to our experiences and lives.
Mindfulness is the opposite of forgetfulness. Have you ever noticed that when you are multi-tasking or feeling anxious, your mind has so much going on that you forget things? Most of us are moving so quickly and in a constant state of busyness that we don't remember much of our day-to-day lives—simply because we are not present enough in any given moment to remember them. Our days, and therefore our lives, feel blurry—and we have the sense that time goes by very, very quickly.
There is a moment when one realizes that this is it. This moment, and this one, and this one. If we squeeze it too tightly—which is really just our fear screaming, "THIS IS GOING TO END! HOLD ON TIGHTER!”—we are so gripped with fear of not "making the most of it" or "wasting it" that we aren't present, and the very thing we fear happens. On the other hand, if we don't consider the finite amount of time we have and hold it too loosely, the idea of slowing down may get kicked down the lane as we think, "There will always be another tomorrow.” But tomorrow is not guaranteed.
The answer to my question about how we ought to hold time feels clear: the grip with which we hold time so that it passes at its intended speed—nature's exquisite and inarguable pace—is somewhere between not too preciously and not too cavalierly, but “rightnowly.”
What do I mean when I suggest holding time rightnowly?
Rightnowly means we are present enough to say to ourselves, "This is the moment I am in, and I notice it. I am paying attention to it right now."
It has become clear that time exists exactly as it should when I move slowly enough to notice it: The tenderness that fills me when my teenage daughter crinkles her nose in laughter like she did when she was three. How my husband's reach feels as familiar as my own skin. The moment of understanding—striking and painful in my soul—that my mother is gone, her body no longer warm and moving, her laugh faded into the breeze as she becomes a part of everything and everything a part of her. Each moment becomes the only moment. I don't have to think about the time behind me or in front of me; in fact, I don't have to think at all. There is nothing to do but to be. Be in this moment, loosely held, but held just the same, and slipping as it should through my hands into the flowing river of the universe.
Enjoy the slow- Heather