The time of your life
Stories and memories
I greeted her at the market stall and offered my first name before asking hers. A smile percolated up and bubbled across her face.
“I’m Harriet [not her real name],” she grinned. “And you’re Elizabeth Beggins.”
My memory was too dim to be trustworthy, but even before she said it I had a hunch it was her.
“I don’t get here much,” she said. “My place is at home. But when they said they needed someone to fill in for the regular girl I figured, ‘Why not?’”
We met for the first time on her family’s farm. My hair was still mostly brown then, and there might have been a bit less of me. I’d never had occasion to interact closely with anyone from a plain sect community and didn’t know that posed photographs might not be the best idea. Somewhere in my archives I have a picture of her and, if memory serves me correctly, three children—a babe in arms and two by her side, the smallest partially protected by the folds of her mother’s skirt, eyes regarding me with suspicion.
More than 20 years have passed since then. We talked about that and briefly about my two grown children. I meant to ask about hers—there are quite a few more now—but I lost my train of thought when she told me of her upcoming flight to Wisconsin, for a family wedding.
“Oh – you’re flying?” I repeated. “Are you…? Uh… Have you done that before?”
She hadn’t, and it would be only the second time for her husband who, she explained with a laugh, was more nervous than she.
“Flying isn’t bad,” I encouraged, “but getting through the airport is the weirdest thing ever. You’ll have to pretend you’re a sheep. Once you’re aboard, you’ll be fine.”
She continued to smile and chatter, weighing out the tomatoes I wanted to purchase. We bid our farewells, but I called back to her as I walked away.
“I want a full report on that airplane ride before another 20 years goes by!”
The conversation stayed with me for the rest of the day and into those that followed. I couldn’t tell you anything at all about my earliest plane flight. By the time I was eight, it wasn’t uncommon for me to jump aboard a single-engine Cessna with family friends to fly to their beach house.
What can I remember doing for the very first time?
Reaching the faucets at the bathroom sink.
Getting a green pea stuck up my nose.
Riding my bike across the hectic, four-lane road to the mall.
Singing my heart out in the school play.
French kissing, and brushing my teeth afterwards.
Stealing my bestie’s guy, for a week. (The friendship lived to tell the tale, despite my stupidity.)
Leaving the country.
Traveling alone.
Sailing offshore.
Discovering a black widow spider.
Touching a hummingbird.
Buying my first car, in my 40s.
There were other milestones, of course, of the sort so many of us remember: First love, first loss, and the time I was courageous enough to stand in power against a mighty injustice.
When we’re young and haven’t lived long enough to be well-seasoned, novelty is the norm, sought after, even. Rarely does a day go by without a new experience, our brains soaking up each one in turn. As we age, the priority shifts. It’s routines that come first. We get around the block a few times, and one day we discover we’ve been circling the same buildings, in the same direction, for longer than we dare consider.
We know better. Experts and our perkiest friends, tell us so. Learning keeps the mind supple, and everything like that. Sure, fine, sign me up for Duolingo. I’ll check it out right after the next episode of The Great British Baking Show. Good intentions are no match for the comfort of the quotidian.
But what if I told you there’s benefit to the unfamiliar that you might not already know about? Ready or not, here I come!
It slows time. You know that feeling of every year going by a little faster than the one before? Doing things differently helps change that. Now, obviously, this is about perception, because time is time, even when the powers that be muck with it by tacking on, or taking off, an hour twice a year. But when our brains process new information, they form vivid memories, touch points that make it seem as though time has passed more slowly.
Let’s say you’re tasting a food you’ve never tried, seeing a work of art you’ve never encountered, navigating an unfamiliar train route. Your brain gets busy taking in the specifics, cataloging, making notations so it knows where to put the new information. As a result, the experience can feel singular, heightened, remarkable.
Now suppose you ate that same food, observed the same painting, or took the same train every day for a month, or a year, or a bunch of years. The premier event will stand out as more pronounced and protracted. You’ll never forget the first time you ate pavlova, even if you eat it regularly for the rest of your life.
Look, I get it. I’m more habitual than many, which is another way of saying I have control issues. My parents aren’t here to defend themselves anymore, so I can blame them. What that means is I have to consciously remind myself to stir the stew so it doesn’t stick to the bottom.
I have a few things going for me. I work full time in a role that is seldom routine. I have a husband with golden-retriever energy who keeps me on my toes. And I write, which inspires me to look for new ways of seeing the world, to be ever mindful of the good and gracious moments that lift me out of my ruts.
And still, time flies. Wasn’t it a week ago that my usual view was filled with unclothed trees where I now see gowns of green brocade? Yesterday, weren’t the iris little more than blue dagger tips above the soil, not the spires and remnant blooms waving at me now? Did I not learn, just a summer or two ago, how to keep my head above water, how to drive, how to fly?
~Elizabeth
"100 Years"
Five for Fighting
I'm 15 for a moment
Caught in between 10 and 20
And I'm just dreaming
Counting the ways to where you are
I'm 22 for a moment
And she feels better than ever
And we're on fire
Making our way back from Mars
15 there's still time for you
Time to buy and time to lose
15 there's never a wish better than this
When you only got a hundred years to live
I'm 33 for a moment
I'm still the man, but you see I'm a "they"
A kid on the way, babe
A family on my mind
I'm 45 for a moment
The sea is high
And I'm heading into a crisis
Chasing the years of my life
15 there's still time for you
Time to buy and time to lose yourself
Within a morning star
15 I'm all right with you
15 there's never a wish better than this
When you only got a hundred years to live
Half time goes by
Suddenly you’re wise
Another blink of an eye
67 is gone
The sun is getting high
We're moving on
I'm 99 for a moment
And dying for just another moment
And I'm just dreaming
Counting the ways to where you are
15 there's still time for you
22 I feel her too
33 you’re on your way
Every day's a new day
15 there's still time for you
Time to buy and time to choose
Hey 15 there's never a wish better than this
When you only got a hundred years to live
Today marks a new first for me. It’s my longest streak so far of staying alive, and it’s been a good one. Mostly.
Thank you for the insightful post as always.
Life is yesterday, today and tomorrow.
I was young once, but the spirit remains young and I fly on the memories but don't wallow in them. Maybe that's the secret.
I live a quiet, unremarkable but contented existence where to live by the sea or look into the microcosm of a rockpool on a daily basis is all I really want to do. Does it slow time down or speed it up? I try not to think about it and just soak up the peaceful atmosphere and thank the stars for the privilege.