The aim of timelessness

Losing track, gaining ourselves

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A song I’m loving:

Coastal coves in Mendocino County, 35mm film

Last Monday, T (my husband) and I had childcare and a day off work — a rare occurrence in the current season of our life. Instead of forgoing the childcare since we were both available, we dropped J (our daughter) off at her grandparent’s house, gathered our water bottles & snacks, slipped on our walking shoes, and headed to the coast an hour away from us — our first time having a whole day together in months; one of a few whole days we’ve had together since J was born in 2021. T usually drives while I’m in charge of directions and the playlist. I love when we go somewhere directions are needed for; I also love going somewhere I know by heart.

The backroads to Point Reyes are always magical, but even more so when you have an expanse of hours ahead of you to enjoy it all, no rush, no urgency hiding somewhere in the schedule or the body, no toddler in the backseat to keep entertained. We stopped at a favorite deli in Point Reyes to grab sandwiches and some fancy bottle of juice (who else is a sucker for good packaging?) before continuing on the familiar picturesque drive all the way to the North-Western tip of the Point Reyes Peninsula, parking along the dusty road at the end and making our way to the trailhead that inched toward the oceanside. What started out as a “walk to explore” turned into a 7.5 mile hike not because we got turned around or weren’t sure what we were doing, but because we lost ourselves in time and space, swept up in the wonder of it all: the hillsides absolutely smothered in violet and white wildflowers, the tule elk and coyotes bobbing along the coastline, the fog flying past us as though we were part of it, the giant black beetles making their way to their own destinations, the sound you only hear in places cars and buildings aren’t allowed, the egg-yolk yellow bush lupine lining the sandy trail, the ocean below on one side and the bay on the other, centering us in the middle.

It was the first time in who knows how long that I felt like I forgot about time. I wasn’t thinking about how much longer we had or how far we had gone. I wasn’t considering what else we could be doing or what we were neglecting by being there instead. I wasn’t checking the time, checking what’s next on the to-do list, checking what the weather would be the next day. I wasn’t thinking about writing or what I could get from the activity we were doing. I wasn’t even thinking much about my daughter. I was enveloped in the moment, in what my senses were absorbing, in the sensation of wind on skin, in the wordless beauty I was walking in.

Dreamy hike scenes last Monday

I don’t like turning every experience into a lesson but when you’re a writer, an observer, a conduit for curiosity, that’s what naturally happens — and I’ve learned to see it as a gift instead of an annoyance. This magnificent day really did shine an obnoxiously bright light on how little space I’ve given myself recently to experience the forgetfulness of time — to be so wrapped up in an experience that the clock becomes insignificant. There are so many things that make this so: having a toddler to care for, bills to pay, a home to keep (somewhat) picked up, food to prepare, responsibilities and life to tend to. Yet there is also the lack of prioritization of the expanse of time. There is forgetting how integral it is, how it doesn’t take away from life but adds to it. There is choosing things I might not necessarily want to do over the space to explore. There is the choice to not ask for help when I don’t necessarily need it, even though my soul could certainly use it. There is the false correlation between using time “wisely” and Getting Something Tangible Done To Show For It.

Really, what I remembered is that perhaps forgetting about time is the wisest thing we can do with it, when we’re able to.

I suppose I’m writing this to declare the importance of getting a scoop of buffalo’s milk soft serve the local grocer several towns over — sometimes even more important than putting the dishes away or vacuuming up the cat hair from the carpet or going to lunch with someone out of obligation instead of desire. I suppose I’m writing it to signal to my own brain the attempt to carve out more through-lines to timelessness. I suppose I’m writing it to name how it felt to lose track of the clock, of the phone, of emails and drafts and to-do lists in favor of looking intently at a group of elk existing out in the wild, in favor of trying with desperation and openness to remember my own wild nature that requires tending in order for it to not get buried under meaningless expectations. I suppose I’m writing it to make note of how good it felt to connect with T in a way we hadn’t in far too long, to laugh and feel out of breath together and really be where we were. I suppose I’m writing it to say it matters, this space we make for ourselves to wander, to meander, to move slowly without destination, to root into the parts of our lives we seek more of. I suppose I’m writing it to give myself permission to seek even more of it.

I was mesmerized by these lines, this divide

“I always forget how important the empty days are, how important it may be sometimes not to expect to produce anything, even a few lines in a journal. A day when one has not pushed oneself to the limit seems a damaged, damaging day, a sinful day. Not so! The most valuable thing one can do for the psyche, occasionally, is to let it rest, wander, live in the changing light of a room.”
― May Sarton

When is the last time you emptied your day so as to invite in room for spaciousness, for an expanse of time, for timelessness? What could happen if you did?

May we lose track of time more often than we think we’re allowed to.
May we use timelessness as a through-line to what really matters.
May we say no to a perfectly-tidy home in order to say yes to experience.
May we reorient toward time as an ally, a conduit, an opportunity.
May we take time to remember what lights our senses on fire, what ignites us.
May we find ourselves in places and spaces that invite wonder, awe, presence.
May we let go of the idea of wasted time when time wasted is often the greatest gift.

Thanks, as always, for being here.

△ I try not to direct you to Instagram here but I’m absolutely smitten with this short film from Stella Blackmon I’ve watched countless times

△ Everything May Sarton (currently re-reading Journal of a Solitude)

△ The Paradox of Listening to Our Bodies

△ Beloved Salmon Creek Farm on Wallpaper

△ The Gravitational Pull of Supervising Kids All the Time

△ Modern Love in miniature

△ This perfect book cover I snagged at the used bookstore

A Room Of One’s Own

With care,
Lisa