If I Could See How Fast Time Passes, That'd Be Great--But Maybe I Can

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My sister-in-law said to me the other day, “How many times did you see your mom this past year?”

I teetered, the answer unsettling before I even calculated the number. I knew it would be regrettably small. I live three hours from my mom under the very, very best of circumstances. Meaning, .00005% of the drivers between the DC metro area and Philadelphia couldn’t be on Interstate 95 at the same time as me. More than that? Oh dear. And, there’s always more than that.

I gave her my guess, and she said, “Now multiply that by twenty, assuming your mom lives past 100.”

The shock hit. A greater shock would be to multiply that by thirty, allowing my mom to live to 112, which would mean she’d be in the newspapers for some awe-inspiring story in the Lifestyle section. The number would still be terribly small, and since it was even more unlikely, it would be more terrible.

I thanked my sister-in-law for the feel-good topic of conversation. She laughed, but then said, “So, for you, it’s not too many times left. For me, it’s far less.” My sister-in-law lives outside of Philly. Her mom lives in Brazil.

We looked at each other. It was a shake-you-into-reality moment.

Time is so valuable. They say it’s all we’ve got. But then, so is spending it on things of value. We’ve got two things in this life: time, and the final say on how to spend it. Two.

Don’t worry. This piece is going to get more uplifting. I don’t think it can get less so. And that’s where the conversation went with my sister-in-law. We had one of those rare jolts into seeing time for what it is and realizing that it falls onto us to decide what happens next, and this is hopeful.

While this can be easier said than done, we began picking our way through some of the things we don’t allow ourselves to experience because we’re always demoting the moment to a quotidian, so-so assumption of endlessness.

When we assume this, we’re so wrong.

This Thanksgiving, I noticed how quickly the minutes passed at different points in the day. First, our arrival in NJ happened faster than it usually seems to, despite the road trip taking its typical time for that northbound haul. The lead-up to the meal was a flash. Without warning, we were in our seats and passing bowls, eating, talking. The dishwashing began — then ended. Games and lounging in front of the TV commenced, then wound down, and before you knew it, darkness fell, and people filtered out. The last of us found ourselves draped over the couches and chairs, eking out the final shreds of conversation, then bed. And done. It was over.

It was stunning, and the oddity of my awareness of it was clear as the day progressed. This never happens to me. I’m often oblivious to time passing. Yes, I have ADHD, which will bestow time-blindness upon you. Yes, I’m a human being in our current, highly distracted world, which also will bestow time-blindness. I’m damned either way.

Which is why, despite the unsettling feeling as I noticed how fast the day was flying by, I was grateful to see it shrink in real time. I’d rather see this sooner than later. That’s the prepper in me. I do have more toilet paper than one should probably own. I do have extra snacks on hand — just in case. I try to get things done ahead of time to mitigate the stress of last-minute, which I don’t attribute to being a planner, but more to a loather of stress. I figure I’d rather know life is short now, rather than discover it when it’s almost gone.

Being on my deathbed and going, “Oh, crap! I never realized.”?

Not cool. Not for me.

But, honestly, that’s a lot of talk. I can say that I see time slip by, but what am I doing about it? Right now, I’m writing this. I’m on the couch in my living room, looking out the window at the sun bouncing off the leaves on the ground, the trees, the branches flapping in the breeze, the fence, the squirrels. Then my attention returns to my laptop screen. I know my family is filtering in the background, getting ready for the weekend. They’ll go off and do what they do, and I’ll stay focused on my laptop tasks. I have work on my novel, two cartoons to draw, a webinar recording to watch, editing, and other writing to tackle.

And all the while, time is slipping by with nothing done to mitigate the regret I might feel when I realize I chose the wrong things with my time. Or that I didn’t balance the load.

I have coaching clients come to me because they want to get better at doing more. I don’t usually have a new client come to me because they want to get better at doing less. You’d think they were opposite, but they’re the same. They’re both about doing different.

It’s not easy. Why? There are pulls on our attention: desirable alternatives to what we hope to choose to do. Either they’re more fun or more promising, less work or less stressful. They allure with lightning-quick speed and force, or they hammer us with the paddle of “you have to do this or else!” Yet, at every turn, there is a blatant invitation for choice, whether we see that or not.

I wish I had eyeballs that could see this constant invitation. Human eyeballs can be so blind.

But there are glasses you can get. They sell them on our internal Amazon, and when you click “purchase,” thus begins the first in a series of intentional choices. In this context, “choose” inherently means “do”. Choice without follow-through is better referred to as want or wish.

This is where I’m left post-Thanksgiving. The day was one of those rare gatherings of the people I value, my family. Because I was lucky to have noticed its hideously fleeting nature, I walked away with a new mission: pay attention more, choose well. This will take effort. Remembering to notice is a skill to be built, but I can do it. We all can. Instead of just moving through my days, oblivious, I might see the crossroads of how I want to spend my time.

Then, to choose or not to choose? That is the question.

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Have a nice week, friends.