Here we go again.
We’ve reached that point in the calendar where we take a week or so adjusting to a new routine.
On Sunday most of us will roll out of bed, in theory, an hour earlier than we did just seven days prior.
It will still read 9:00 a.m. on the clock or the phone. But our internal timepiece will still be ticking in the past. In other words, if this Sunday was last Sunday, or even yesterday Saturday, it would be 8:00 a.m. and not 9 and there would be one more hour to squander underneath blankets.
But early Sunday morning‚—even though many consider it Saturday night—our clocks jump ahead as we prepare to leap into Spring.
It’s the time change.
As much as 15-year-old me wanted time to speed up and to be older quicker, decades-later-me hyperventilates when considering how quickly time passes and life flies by.
The time we spend on this earth is too brief, even for those among us who are fortunate to live well into their eighth and ninth decades.
But the fleeting nature of our time on the planet is made more apparent when considered in the face of the pandemic.
March 19 marks the four year anniversary of the stay at home order California Governor Gavin Newsom issued in the face of rampaging COVID-19. The lives of one million American lives were cut short because of that virus.
But time marches on and here we are, better armed against the microscopic scourge that separated us physically, emotionally and mentally from loved ones. Vaccines, treatments and masks have bought us more time.
As grateful I am to have made it through that period—which at times felt never-ending—I’m in no rush to hurry up and jump ahead. We have the rest of the rainy season and then a wildfire season followed by campaign season to contend with. November and the presidential election fill me with particular dread.
But at the same time I do not want to go backwards, that’s not how we progress.
I’d be content, for now, if time would slow down, perhaps even come close to a standstill. Maybe I can go find a line at the DMV to stand in.
