On Time (And ̶W̶a̶s̶t̶i̶n̶g̶ Spending It Well)
A particularly wise ex-partner once said to me ‘time is all we have.’
I wish I’d been the one to coin that phrase. I notice myself wanting to use it as a headliner for this piece, imagining myself stretching it up into the ‘What’s your title’ box and experiencing a deep sense of satisfaction as it lands there with a well-weighted ‘plunk.’ Time is all we have.
There is a simplicity to the sentence that makes it almost missable. Like a cheesy slogan that we write off as today’s version of ‘Live, laugh, love’ but with a deeper message hidden underneath. We are all born with a finite amount of time. And that time is our only true belonging. A bank account, its balance unknown, filled up with moments to be spent living and handed to us on the day we’re born. We’re either frugal or expansive investors.
I, for one, like to waste my time.
That’s not quite true.
I like to spend my time struggling with myself.
It strikes me as a funny thing to say, that I enjoy my inner struggles and resistance. I am writing a dissertation and I like to not write it; I like the not-writing to fill up hours upon hours of my time, staring blankly at the note above my desk that I have written, reminding myself, ‘Unclench your jaw! :D’
As long as I am staring at this sign, I do not have to think about much else. Not the changes that are happening around me, not the relationships I’ve lost or left behind, not the ever-chiding voice inside my mind saying my life is moving by me and quickly; I ought to grab the bull by its horns.
Not-writing my dissertation is a security blanket; one I frequently curl into with delight. All of this time I buy back for myself in the process of not-writing it. All of these hours I’m allowed to spend alone.
We have a bias towards believing that our time belongs to other people. My friend Caitlin wrote an incredible piece about this that I think about most days lately.
‘Yes this time I have been given is mine,’ We like to say, ‘But really it belongs to my family. Or my friends. Or my work, or my school or the partnerships I form throughout my life.
This time is mine, in a technical sense, but its debt can feel surprisingly comfortable.
After all. If I believe my time is owed, I’m not responsible for making wise investments. I need not ever take true inventory of my spending.’
This morning, I rise early and make a payment on my credit card.
I don’t like looking at my bank account lately but I deeply enjoy not looking at it. Oh, the deliciousness of the stress I felt last week when I missed a payment for the first time in years. Watching the ‘overdue’ emails roll in, noticing the tightening sensation in my body, seeing the thought ‘I will log in and pay that off’ careening through my mind at the distinctly breakneck speed that only lies take. I love these lies I tell myself; the things I say I’ll do, knowing I won’t. Me against me. My most treasured and long-lasting adversary. Locked in the arena together, playing a game that we have always rigged to win.
I imagine this inner struggle buys me back a lot of my own time.
Lately things are moving quickly in my outer world. And most days, I find the speed delightful.
I wonder lately, with detached fascination, how many things I can pack into a summer. Can I finish a dissertation? Can I open myself back up to love? Can I grow my arm muscles and shrink my waist and attend recovery meetings every second night? Can I become a stand-up comedian and deliver my first set? Can I get back to my work and double my Youtube following with a few viral hits? There is a stream of constant motion I’ve stepped into that pushes itself steadily forward and the more I flow downstream, the more something small in me cries out to not be missed.
I like the world. I like other people. But what I like most is the quiet hours I spend with myself without justification.
The long walks in the park where my mind wanders. The mornings on my couch curled up with books. The conversations with new friends and loved ones that I turn over and over in my mind; speaking first at long length with myself before picking up the phone to respond.
I imagine some of the best moments of my life have been spent in this space that I carve out to experience myself within. And so I thieve those moments shamelessly, relentlessly, from the tasks I tell myself I ‘ought’ to be doing.
And yet.
This is my life, is it not?
Each of these tiny, quiet moments do belong to me. No matter how I find my way to them.
I am not begging, stealing or borrowing, at the end of the day. Not really.
I am choosing.
What do I want to learn, with this time I have on earth? What do I want to experience and see? Who do I want to invest this time I have been given into knowing, into planting seeds that grow into love?
I imagine most of us spend our lives placing artificial caps on our time not because we fear it’s running out, but because the full responsibility of spending it, consciously and well, can feel like too much to bear.
Reading while procrastinating work is simpler than saying ‘I am here and I am choosing to learn.’
Creating conflict and feeding off the drama is simpler than saying ‘I am here and I am choosing to love.’
Outsourcing our time to some arbitrary other and then stealing it back in frantic moments is simpler than saying ‘I am here and I have chosen this moment. I am wide awake inside my experience of it.’
This summer, between 8:30 and 9:30 each morning, I get into the habit of turning my electronics off. For one hour, I make a commitment to do whatever I will otherwise preoccupy the rest of my day with not-doing.
Some days this means responding to a bothersome email. Other days it means writing the first sentence of a paper (I find the first sentence often takes a month and all the following, a couple of days). Sometimes it means setting a boundary or having a difficult conversation or getting really still and quiet with the sensations that are demanding my attention internally.
Inevitably when I’ve finished this hour and conclude it with a long, regulating stretch, the same sensation rushes forth.
Aliveness. An awakening. An awareness of time stretching out before me, that I now must decide consciously how I will spend.
This morning, for the first time in a long time, I sit down to write.
I have a deadline looming. Messages I really want to answer. An ever-thrumming buzz of ‘should’s and ‘could’s swirling dully through the background of my awareness.
And yet I sit down and I spend this time guiltlessly.
This time is mine.
And I have learned I’m going to take it either way.
