Yesterday evening Sam and I were on the back porch when we heard a lawnmower from the front of the house. She figured it was her dad, who she’d asked to come by and mow our front yard when he had the chance, as my feet and hands are still healing. We went to the front of the house and sat on the front stoop, talking and being out there, in some sense, with him. It is terribly kind of Don to come by and mow our yard after a long day, and it doesn’t feel right to simply be inside going about our business while he’s mowing.
Sitting on the front steps, occasionally talking, but mostly just sitting and being there, watching Eros, my almost 15-year-old cat, run up the brick steps as fast as he can because of the lawnmower sound, and, again, mostly just being there, I started thinking about time—something I do quite a bit anyway.
In line with claims such as “youth is wasted on the young,” there is the often repeated, and seemingly unassailable idea, that time passes much more slowly when you are young, when a kid, than when you are older; when you are older, time accelerates precipitously. While this seems true to my experience, my hypothesis is that time’s perceived rate of passage is not intrinsic to one’s age, but rather one’s lifestyle or way of life. Perhaps that is more “duh” than “doh!” but I hope that what comes next will serve as a reminder of the obvious if nothing else. Continue reading