How To Pass Time During The Pandemic

During the pandemic I learned to see Time.

Time is not the linear countdown of a digital clock. Nor is it the hypnotic sweep of the second hand over a clock face, or the falling grains of sand in an hourglass. 

Time moves through the world as nature morphs around us.

If we pay attention, we see the buds unfurl, petals fall, fruit swell and ripen, grass heads sway, leaves spark into flame and snow drifting down like dust motes. 

We make too big a deal about solstices and equinoxes. As the earth orbits around the sun one season creeps towards the next, not leaps. 

The Japanese measure time in 72 micro seasons of roughly 5 days each. So well known are these that an insect or flower in art or poetry will teleport the viewer to a specific time and place, and trigger a feeling. The delicate and transient nature of cherry blossoms remind you that life is short and precious, for example.

I have taken this to heart during the pandemic. I walk every day and watch time pass. 

After each rain, the miniature waterfalls in the waste-water grates sing a different song. The hellebores are going to seed while the tulip poplar drops its creamsicle and chartreuse blossoms on the asphalt. The white flowers covered in bees a week ago have plumped into  green berries on the holly bushes. 

The white oak who clung to its leaves all winter, sounding like a rainstick in the breeze, is letting them go one by one, as light green fills out its canopy. 

The changes are too small to see in a day, but they are huge in five. As I watch nature ebb and flow, I too feel part of the great belonging.

Photo credit: Print, Cherry Blossom Viewing, 1797–1858; Ando Hiroshige (Japanese, 1797–1858); Japan;
woodblock print in colored ink on paper; Gift of the Estate of Mrs. Robert H. Patterson; 1941–31–266