By Katherine Munter
“This time, like all times, is a very good one, if we but know what to do with it.” —Ralph Waldo Emerson
I sat on my bed watching the second hand move around the clock. As each second passed, I let my thoughts tread the dynamic line between present and past. “Now, then… now, then… now, then…” You see? The present is such a sliver.
I looked over at my younger sister, who sat playing with her favorite stuffed bunny. I knit my brows as I tried to grasp the complexity of time and my place within it. An impish grin spread across my sister’s lips, and she told me that her stuffed rabbit had the ability to time travel. She tossed her stuffy into the air, caught it in her arms, and then tossed it to me. The limp and well-loved stuffed toy was easier to grasp than the concept of time, and I released into laughter as I tossed her rabbit back.
More than a decade later, I sat on the floor of my college dorm room reflecting while tracing my fingers through the shaggy fibers of a throw rug. The pile bent under my fingertips like disturbed pondweed at the bottom of a slow-moving river. I considered how we measure time by aligning with clocks and calendars to help us function as a society. Yet, I also wondered about layers of time and how our subjectivity and perception factor in. Sometimes I was happy to allow time to slip from me such as when I anticipated something fun ahead. I also reflected on moments when I longed for time to linger. On occasion, desiring more time was related to feeling ill-prepared for school projects or tests. Those moments fade. Etched forever into my memory are the periods when I helped care for elderly loved ones paralyzed between longing for more time and wanting their suffering to end.
Time can seem to come to a standstill when we are waiting. During my grade school days, I would stare at the clock above the classroom door silently pleading for the bell toll to release me. Sometimes, I would avert my eyes, hoping that more time would pass between my longing glances. I’d spot birds outside the window, and my jealousy grew as I sat in a hard plastic chair and ached to stretch my limbs. When I’d look back at the clock face, I was often disheartened to see how little time had passed since my last glance. I wondered whether the clock was growing too tired to make it all the way around the dial, or perhaps whether it had fallen asleep to the lull of my teacher’s voice.
Novel experiences can force us to attune, slowing our perception of time. When we become curious, our brain devotes energy to learning. When exploring a new place, I’ve been amazed at how much can seem to fit into a day. What I did earlier that morning can seem like it happened days prior. When my children were small, even watching them explore seemed to abate the passing of time. Their curiosity and awe inspired me to slow down and look at the world with fresh eyes.
One morning during my doctoral program, our professor asked us to write as much as we could remember about our day from the time we awoke until we arrived in our seats. Most people were finished writing within minutes. On an average day, I would have been the same. However, on that particular morning, the children who were waiting for the bus across the street became irresistible to my young dog. He heard them laughing and decided to join them by launching his body through the screen door. Backpacks were thrown into the air as my dog raced toward the street. My heart leaped in my chest, and time slowed as I called him back. He turned on a dime and happily trotted back to me. Disaster was averted, yet my body was flooded with adrenaline. During the entire drive to school afterward, I noticed everything— the soft fuzz of the seat contrasted with the slightly bumpy vinyl of the wheel, the herbaceous and damp scent of a freshly mowed lawn cut through the sharp and metallic smell of exhaust fumes.
Attunement, whether through force as in a fear response, or through disciplined practice, can slow moments and offer greater depth and meaning to the present. Looking at memorable objects from our past can transport us across decades. Listening to transformative songs from our youth can offer us an opportunity to reconnect with periods when we felt freer and full of possibilities. Nostalgia can provide a momentary escape, help us to remember our core values, and provide support as we navigate our present path.
Time can also seem to slip through our fingers like water. As a child, I was certain that time sped up as I approached bedtime. Immersed in play, I wanted to follow my impulses. I tried to explain the unfairness of tracking time with the mantle clock. It sat smugly above the fireplace posturing expertise in timekeeping with its Roman numerals and fancy hands. I noted that there seemed to be a smaller physical distance between the hours of eight and nine o’clock. I even got out a ruler to demonstrate the discrepancy of space between the digits. Sadly, I was unsuccessful in convincing my parents to extend my bedtime.
This same concept comes into play when we’re concentrating. Tracking time requires us to divide our attention so that we can monitor duration while attending to other activities. When our attention becomes more fully focused on a project, our brain dedicates less resources to our internal clock. Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi, the co-founder of the field of positive psychology, described a state of “flow” as an individual so deeply engaged in a task they experience peak creative performance and lose track of time. Artist and musician friends have described periods when they feel completely disconnected from bodily perceptions such as muscle fatigue and even hunger pangs while they are making progress on a piece.
As we age and gain experience, we encounter fewer novel experiences. When we move about a familiar environment, we no longer need to learn about much of our surroundings. Cognitively, this helps with efficiency and conserves our energy. However, when we lack curiosity and attunement, time will seem to blur and accelerate. Seeking novelty, we can get sucked into scrolling on our phones. To our brains, we are experiencing the pleasure of novelty, yet we come away with very little new information. When I was in my mid 30s, artist Charles McGee told me, “The distance from 8 to 80 seemed like a day.” Those words stuck with me, and they resonate more deeply as I continue to age and my perception of time changes.
Routine can both mark and blur time. When things happen on a certain day, such as garbage pickup or a weekly extracurricular activity, it helps us to structure our week. Seasonal holidays can help us to mark the year. However, as our brains are wired for efficiency, when we follow a daily routine, we can go into a sort of autopilot mode. We devote as little energy as possible to these routine tasks, and we don’t store as many memories when we travel familiar paths. Our brain disregards redundant information. During the pandemic, when routine was disrupted, time felt confusing, and I had trouble sensing blocks of time. I forced myself to look at my home with curiosity noticing things in my environment. I started listening to birdsong and connecting to the creatures who shared my outdoor space. I paused and engaged with my senses as I enjoyed rituals like tea and meals.
We can use these concepts to support us. When we attune and savor time, our perception of it slows and we are grounded in the moment. Engaging in active tasks that ignite curiosity, such as music or drawing, can help to speed time and ease the process of waiting.
The next time you engage in a routine task, I invite you to approach it with curiosity, as though looking through a child’s eyes. Attune to one sense at a time grounding yourself in this time and space. Pause while washing dishes, slow your breath, close your eyes, and smell the soap. Your nose is the one sensory organ that connects directly to the memory and emotional centers of your brain. Notice what bubbles up within you. Gather some lather and watch how it catches the light—each orb its own shimmering, rainbow world. Bring your ear close to the suds and listen to the crackles as they burst. With a finger, test how much pressure a bubble can withstand. Feel the cushion of the foam as it shifts under your gentle touch and slides on your skin. Bring your awareness to temperature noticing the difference between the suds, water, and your hands. As you begin to wash, notice how stubborn spots offer resistance and then release. Synch your breath with your arm movements, remembering that even the seemingly ordinary can evoke awe if we welcome it in.
Dr. Katherine Munter, clinical psychologist, art therapist, and founder of Creative Life Therapy, an Ann Arbor practice of art therapy and integrative wellbeing. Learn more at www.CreativeLifeTherapy.com.
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Time can seem to come to a standstill when we are waiting. During my grade school days, I would stare at the clock above the classroom door silently pleading for the bell toll to release me. Sometimes, I would avert my eyes, hoping that more time would pass between my longing glances. I’d spot birds outside the window, and my jealousy grew as I sat in a hard plastic chair and ached to stretch my limbs. When I’d look back at the clock face, I was often disheartened to see how little time had passed since my last glance. I wondered whether the clock was growing too tired to make it all the way around the dial, or perhaps whether it had fallen asleep to the lull of my teacher’s voice.