Stepping outside of linear time
How big changes in life can alter our perception of and dependance on time, and what we stand to gain from these shifts.
Field Notes on Flourishing is a monthly love letter exploring art, mindfulness, creativity, and the question of flourishing — by Ludi Leiva.
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I’ve been thinking a lot about time.
My partner and I adopted a 10-week-old puppy almost one month ago, and since then everything in our lives has been turned on its axis. Moon is an absolute joy, and I am grateful to her for introducing this new sense of purpose greater than myself—beyond my needs, my wants, my schedule, and my timeline—into my everyday life. The first week, however, I struggled.
I’m the kind of person who needs 8 hours of sleep a night, at minimum. If I don’t I will crack. At least, this is what I’ve always told myself, and once again repeated to my reflection in the mirror, looking into my own bloodshot eyes after the third or fourth night of getting up at 2 a.m., 4:30 a.m., and then waking up for good at 6 a.m. Can I go on like this? I catastrophized wondered one morning as I lay outstretched on a half-unfurled yoga mat on my kitchen floor, head pounding, limply throwing a toy across the room for her to chase.
But go on I did.
Fast forward almost four weeks and the three of us are now in a flow. Moon sleeps through the night, at least seven or eight consecutive hours now, and rarely wakes before 6:30 a.m. We have learned to intuit her needs based on her body language, and she has learned to communicate them to us in her own ways, as well. It’s amazing how adaptable humans can be, how we somehow find ways to rise to meet changes in life.
My days look pretty unrecognizable. I can’t help but chuckle a bit wondering what Ludi from two months ago would say about my daily routine now: up early in the morning and out on two or even three walks—and sometimes even at my studio—earlier than past me would have rolled out of bed; gleefully breaking up pieces of freeze-dried wild moose treats with my bare fingers (I don’t eat and am generally grossed out by meat) because I know how much she loves them; cleaning up messes I previously might have had a germaphobic meltdown over.
In the midst of all of this rapid change, the days and weeks go by faster than I’ve ever experienced. Time is stretched into different shapes and dimensions than I had known previously. By the time evening rolls around, I’m exhausted and am often in bed at 10 p.m. But there is a warmth and fullness there that is undeniable—the three of us dozing off in the same room, sheltered and safe. I am now fully in service to someone. I am fully charged with someone’s care (I jokingly referred to her as my “ward” while writing in my journal the other day, and even though it’s silly it is so true!). To care so intensively for another being in this primal way, I am learning, is also an invitation for me to care for myself—albeit in different ways than I did before.
A few days ago, I stood in the garden with Moon, watching as the sunrise turned the clouds pink and orange. The autumn air was crisp, and so were the leaves beneath both of our feet. Moon chased them around as the wind lifted them above the grass. In one of the towering pines, a red squirrel chirped as it scampered up the rough trunk of the tree, holding in its mouth one of the thousands of acorns a neighboring oak has scattered on the ground in recent weeks. I had no idea what time it was. For me, that moment existed outside of linear time, and I was fully inside of it.
I recently listened to a podcast with Jenny Odell (linked below) in which she talks about her new book Saving Time: Discovering a Life Beyond the Clock (which I haven't read yet) and the concept of Kronos versus Kairos time, which could be most simply described as quantitative and qualitative time, respectively.
“Kairos is like the interruption, the big thing that happens that you remember years later,” Odell explains on the podcast. “I have many friends who’ve had children in the last couple of years. So like having a child, or you know, whether it’s good or bad, like a storm arriving and totally interrupting your life. And sometimes it can be very subtle. I know for me, I’ve had experiences where I read a book and I get to the end and I’m sort of like, I need to go sit on a park bench and rethink my entire life [ … ] Kairos is this reminder of the kind of inherent unpredictability and creativity of every moment.”
I listened to another podcast this month—Krista Tippett’s On Being episode with Kate Bowler, also linked below—which, coincidentally, also touched upon the idea of Kronos versus Kairos time. Tippett summed it up beautifully: “Kronos is actually the way we organized our society as though it works like a clock. It’s Newton. It’s one thing follows the other, and it’s the time of deadlines and schedules and calendars and accomplishment that is progressive across time. And then Kairos are these moments of inbreaking that disrupt everything that came before. And it can be an instant, and it can be a century. But it is this, it’s the Before and the After with a capital B and a capital A.”
“Kairos are these moments of inbreaking that disrupt everything that came before. And it can be an instant, and it can be a century. But it is this, it’s the Before and the After with a capital B and a capital A.”
There are so many possible scenarios in which life can shift so greatly as to forge a canyon between the before and the after. Sometimes these experiences are what society would think of as “big” things: the loss of a loved one, the birth of a child, moving to a new city, adopting a pet, losing or getting a job. We’ve collectively lived through a few of these in recent years, the COVID-19 pandemic being one such event. But there are also millions of little moments in which this can happen to a smaller degree.
If I really think about it, I can roughly catalog countless of these moments, some larger than others, that are mostly characterizable (for me at least) by the profound realization of the big-ness of things, and the subsequent dwarfing of so many other things that had previously seemed of more consequence. I’ve experienced this while on a long forest walk or ice bathing, while painting or drawing, while watching a particularly stunning sunset, following deep meditation, to name a few situations. It’s this feeling of waking up, of catching a glimpse of what, to me, feels like some universal truth of life, of being, of consciousness. It is a disruption, a gap in linear time that allows us to simultaneously sense both our fragility and our greatness.
It’s this feeling of waking up, of catching a glimpse of what, to me, feels like some universal truth of life, of being, of consciousness. It is a disruption, a gap in linear time that allows us to simultaneously sense both our fragility and our greatness.
Getting Moon has represented one of these such moments for me. Things have shifted and I’m still learning how this new life is going to look for me. But one thing is for sure, it is a welcome shift. I have been gifted a gap between this auto-pilot tendency that I know so many of us seem to land in, of refreshing social media and email apps, of going through the motions, of mentally organizing our lives around deadlines and social plans in our calendars, of stressing about so many of the uncertainties and horrors that make up the backdrop of our world today—and, perhaps, consequently numbing ourselves in a myriad of ways, as well. But at least for right now, time feels very distinct. Moon is so profoundly present and my being party to her innate ability to live in the now makes me want to do the same. Her wonder at the world is contagious. Suddenly, many of the things that previously felt urgent feel less so, and vice-versa.
Currently, as I write, Moon is asleep on my desk between me and my keyboard. Her soft, small body moves up and down as she dreams. She feels safe with me, and somehow that deep, loving trust makes me trust and love myself more, too.
In a world of constant urgency—of an almost maniacal productivity—I am moving slower and more assuredly. I am losing track of time more often—in a good way—and somehow, in that, everything is different. How things will progress from here, or how these new realizations and ways of being will affect my art and creative practice, I can’t know, but I’m in no rush to find out. Instead, I’ll savor every sunrise, practice the continuous letting go of the feeling I should be on any other timeline than the one I am on, and relish in this profound new manifestation of love, of presence, that which is felt, for instance, when a small creature trusts you fully enough to sleep in your arms.
Some updates:
I am preparing for two upcoming exhibitions in October and November. They are both in Stockholm. If you are in the neighborhood I’d love it if you’d swing by:
A Home is a Portal (Solo exhibition) at Östberga Kulturhus | Vernissage Thursday, October 12 at 18:00
Rest a Moment (Solo exhibition) at Samsen Atelier | Vernissage Thursday, November 30 at 18:00
I’ve made some new work and updated my website ツ I have prints available of the below print available for purchase:
Size A2 (archival giclée print) — 60 USD + shipping (depending on location)
Size 50x70cm (archival giclée print) — 70 USD + shipping (depending on location)
My studio is finally coming together! I still need to hang things on the walls and buy some more plants, but here’s an idea of where I work these days:
Things I’m practicing/engaging with lately:
Gold by Cleo Sol (Album) – I’ve long adored this artist but there is something so spiritual and stirring about this new album, one of two (!) she dropped this month
Who is Wellness For? By Fariha Roísín (just picked this one up but am liking it so far)
Keeping a handwritten weekly planner. I still live and die by my Google Calendar but there is something so indulgent and grounding about handwriting to-do’s and important events on a piece of paper.
On Being with Krista Tippett Kate Bowler On Being in a Body (Podcast)
Allowing myself the space to devour books like I did when I was a kid (I’ve read upwards of 2,000 pages in the last 3 months, which is a lot for me)
Emergence Magazine Podcast // Another Kind of Time - a conversation with Jenny Odell (Podcast)
Not picking up my phone until after breakfast.
A guide to forest bathing // Life Kit (Podcast)
Thank you, thank you.
So much for being here. Your support and presence mean so much and I appreciate every single one of you.
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