Time and the River

About six years ago I posted on Facebook about a plastic, European Medieval clock kit that we kids put together long ago, which resembled the photo here. The horizontal bar at the top with square blocks acts somewhat like a pendulum; it seesaws forward and back, powered by a dropping weight. Changing the positions of the blocks on the bar allows adjustment of clock speed. Gears and a sprocket wheel advance the single hand around the face to track the hours.

Brass-faced Matutinus model clock by the Ardavín company, Madrid, Spain (www.ardavin.net).

      At the time I posted about this, I wondered whether daily life would have a different pace if we paid attention only to hours, rather than to minutes, let alone seconds.
      The development of mechanical clocks allowed tracking of time during both day and night, and on cloudy days—a definite advantage over the sundial. 

A helmsman’s marine sandglass. Public domain (1859).

​Ships had a different timekeeping problem because of movement on the sea, sometimes drastic movement. The marine sandglass provided a workable solution from at least the 14th century. It’s an “hourglass” that tracks time in half-hour increments. The sandglass was hung from a hook, so that it could sway and keep vertical as needed with the movement of the ship; thus the flow of sand continued—more or less accurately. Each increment and turn of the glass was marked by ringing of the ship’s bell.

   Much of my work life was run by deadlines. That’s not true now, but sometimes I still tend to behave and feel as though it is. I get over-invested in punctuality and making sure things are done “on time.” I almost never have a set schedule these days; my day planner is largely empty space. But that old drive lingers on.
      The drive is the problem, not setting a time or meeting an appointment. It’s about how I approach these set points. 
      In 1970, Gestalt therapist Barry Stevens published a book titled Don't Push the River (It Flows by Itself). The title was arguably the best part.
       I have spent so much time pushing the river.

​In 2019, I stayed at Upaya Zen Center for about ten days. At Upaya and many other Zen centers, a wooden board called a han is struck in three sets of repeating patterns as the time for morning meditation grows closer. I found that upon hearing the han, I could rush around to get ready and dash to the hall to be on time, or I could move in an unhurried but directed way to do the same. 

A han at Tassajara Zen Center. Calligraphy by Linda Ruth Cutts, 2017.

    Either way, I still got to the hall. When I moved deliberately but without rushing, staying in the flow, I found my mind was already more at rest when meditation began.
    Time passes, whether precisely measured or not. Sometimes we do need to work quickly or move swiftly—but we gain nothing when we translate that into feeling pressured, pushed, anxious, or rushed because of old habits.