JULY 8, 2004
Meeting August, Living Outside of Time
by Leigh Barret
Constant awareness of time passing gives such a sense of urgency to life. We miss the present moment. We count the days, minutes, seconds, waiting for the arrival of some precious moment. Then Poof! It's gone . . . so fast we almost missed it, and surely had no time to savor the occasion.
In modern life, we have few "real" moments, as they almost all are replaced by minutes. The minutes then speed by, or drag and lag, or slip like sand escaping to the bottom chamber of an hourglass. Our Moments have been transformed into Time: a slippery, essence with a variable viscosity depending on the situation.
In my own past, I found that chasing after this unseen, elusive quantity was very distressing. It seemed to dissolve between my fingers as if I was trying to catch smoke and put some in my pocket. Often, just like smoke, long wispy swaths of it would just float away when I wasn't looking.
Part of the problem was that ten years ago, I worked as an intensive care unit nurse in a very busy ICU, in a very large university hospital. Our patients were often so ill that every instant counted. Nearly every individual minute was noted, counted, assigned some crucial action to help the patient survive until the next minute.
In this kind of environment, my own life, both at work and at home, came to depend on this elusive stuff, revolving around it like the hands on my stainless steel Nursing watch. Life was measured into small finite increments, and so was I… little bits of measured "me". I remember thinking how wrong it all felt. If I just had some more time, I thought, I could figure out where it's all escaping to.
Then, a few years back, I discovered August. Re-discovered it really, like an old friend I hadn't seen since summer-is-forever-childhood. When we met up again, August and I had both just settled down for a long vacation in the south of France, in the tiny village where my husband's family has lived for time out of memory. Time had definitely visited here, carving creases into the old peoples faces and polishing the cobblestones by the comings and goings of generations of local feet. I sat on a low stone wall and watched the late-summer sun as it strode across the old village, illuminating facades of red and yellow ochre and trying to peep in the half-closed olive and turquoise painted shutters. For now, in August, Time was taking a long nap behind those shuttered windows. It was sated from a big lunch and a stroll under the noon sun, among market stalls overflowing with wands of lavender and jars of honey and gooey goat cheese wrapped in chestnut leaves from the foothills beyond our village. Or maybe, Time was unwinding up at the corner café over a hand of cards and a glass of cloudy anise-flavored pastis, chilled by a single ice cube. Time doesn't stop, but in August it goes on vacation.
In August, no alarm clock, just the persistent clicking of the cigales that hug the platane trees lining the town commons, or the thumping of the soccer ball the little boys kick against the eight-hundred year old church, or the whistles of the swallows diving for mosquitoes in the alley behind our house. After the first day, I tucked my watch away in my suitcase. Time had gotten lost, maybe stretching itself out on the beach. Incognito.
Nor have I found it there on successive visits. August is a slow month, and outside of time if we let it be. Like January, it is a place for resting before new activity begins. In this space of non-time, it's possible to find my source again, my reason for walking in this life. August becomes a contemplation, a refuge where I can live in the present moment, savoring things more deeply.
When September arrives I begin making lists again, and preparing for the return to a more active life, one still governed by schedules and day planners. But I never completely forget the lessons of August. At home, I appreciate more of the present moments. The sparrows and finches that cluster around the feeder become tiny individual beings, instead of a flock. My work, once driven by time, is now driven by the reciprocal enthusiasm of my students and self. No longer ending or beginning or living (or dying) for any certain minute or hour to be accomplished, I don't feel cut into little pieces any more. Thanks to August, for me, life and time have become full and tend to dance a-round instead of marching straight ahead.
Living outside of time is a respite, as there is no worry about wasting it, spending it, or even having enough of it. We're simply present, drinking wine and eating juicy, orange-fleshed melons with our neighbors in the garden; walking the beach and saluting the sun, moon and deep blue waves. We infuse our souls with the perfumes of wild lavender and parasol pine. We soak up the summer pop songs, playing endless games of gin rummy and crazy 8's on afternoons when thunderstorms roll overhead. We nap after lunch, stay out late and forget to worry about "wasting" time.
Where I am now, it's July and I can't help but look ahead to August, which still feels far from here. I try so hard, and often succeed in being with the here and now, but occasionally a feeling of urgency breaks through and I want to hurry up… so I can slow down! Meanwhile, I'm paying attention to each beautiful day, (even if I am counting them) . . . until I can stop counting again.