Time clamors for our attention. Whether it's the second hand on the red retro clock hanging above the kitchen doorway telling me I'm late for work, or the bright white minutes adding themselves up in the lower right corner of my Lenovo's dimmed screen as a deadline approaches, or the predictable shift from one episode of the Brady Bunch to the next every thirty minutes on Me-TV on a Sunday afternoon, time makes its passage known. Or is it only our mechanized ways of counting time that make us notice its steady progress?
What would we do if we weren't so mindful of its passage? Would we notice the details of seconds, minutes, and hours so readily if we weren't so busy tracking them? Or would we notice them even more if we weren't always hurrying to the next second, minute, or hour?
Humankind's fascination with quantifying time is ancient. Sundials. Calendars. Then there's the shifting that's required based on other human discoveries and inventions. Latitude. Religion.
My deadlines and rushing and need to keep track of time are nothing so lofty as all that. They are simply the products of choices I've made - to work, take classes, freelance, create. To try to leave something behind so my own passing won't go unnoticed.
Yet, in the midst of all the calendaring and clock-following that dictates too many of my days, I've discovered it's nice to take a break, think about something different, take a photo or write a poem -- to take a deep breath and make a momentary switch.