Words Connie Dunwoody
On aging, time changes, and the quiet urgency of now.
The clocks do their quiet, bossy dance twice a year. One Sunday they leap forward like a caffeinated squirrel, another they slump back like a cat reclaiming a warm cushion. We grumble, we yawn, we reset the microwave and the oven, give up on setting the clock in the car, and then we move on. The spring time change in particular carries a whisper that gets louder every year, one that sounds a little like wisdom clearing its throat.
It murmurs: “Get going. It’s later than you think.”
Getting older isn’t ushered in by a laser light show. It’s more of a slow dimmer switch. It’s a dampening down of the time we think we have.
Yet when we “spring forward,” time moves suddenly. Dinner feels too early and the evening vanishes in a Lewis Caroll-like shift. It’s a bit bewildering. And one morning you wake up and realize you have less: fewer summers, fewer weekends, fewer evenings. Fewer trips. Less time.
Get going. It’s later than you think.
It’s later than you think when you realize you’ve been saving the good china for a guest who never arrives. Later than you think when the trip you planned for “someday” becomes a folder of screenshots and weather checks. Later than you think when you notice the way your parents’ hands move more carefully around a coffee mug, or when your children no longer ask to be carried. Time didn’t vanish; it was used. And this, really, is the point that’s easy to miss.
We tell ourselves we’re waiting for the right conditions. For the body to feel better, for the calendar to calm down, for confidence to arrive with a signed note from the universe. Let’s be honest: there is no perfect time. A lifelong friend lost her husband in his 60s. In his papers, she found trips he was planning for the two of them to take. “I thought we’d have more time,” she lamented.
It’s later than you think when the doctor says “monitor it” and you realize monitoring is not the same as living. It’s later than you think when the hobby you loved becomes a story you tell about who you used to be. Later than you think when the words you meant to say start collecting dust because you think the moment passed.
Perhaps the time change is a nudge. Maybe it’s an invitation, an opportunity. A reminder to do things now. Call the friend you miss. Have the conversations. Wear the jacket that makes you feel awesome. Choose the ridiculous glasses that make you giggle. See Antarctica. Take the class, write the memoir, paint the picture, buy the bike. (Then ride it.)
The truth is, I want to grow old. I want to stop negotiating with time, as if that would make a difference. “Slow down, you move too fast; you got to make the morning last … ” admonish Simon & Garfunkel. But time doesn’t slow down for anyone. I want to accept where I am, choose how to spend my time, and do the things I love with the people I love.
Because “later” is not promised to any of us, and as I move through life, I realize I regret more the things I did not do, than the things I did.
So reset the clocks, then reset your expectations. Take stock. Evaluate your options. Choose how you’d like to spend your time.
Then step into the hour you’re in and use it like you mean it, with all your heart, mind, and strength, and with delight and joy.
Get going. It’s later than you think.
