Time

 

Ramblings of a Retired Mind

Time

Where has the time gone?
How did it get this late already?
Where did the day go?

Time, as the saying goes, waits for no one.

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Theories That Hurt My Head

There are, broadly speaking, three theories of time: realist, relational, and idealist.

The realist view holds that time is a physical thing—time is relative, tied to space, just as Einstein described. The idea that time slows as speed increases is fascinating, but also enough to give me a migraine, so let’s not linger there too long.

The relational view suggests that time depends on the sequence of physical events in the universe. In an empty universe, time wouldn’t exist at all. Where the realist says the universe has a clock, the relationalist says the universe is a clock. Thinking about who—or what—started that clock brings on a dull ache along the top and sides of my head, so it’s probably best to move on.

That leaves the idealist view, which claims time is a construct of the human mind—an illusion. Its passage depends on human observers.

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Retirement Time

Ignore that Monday is Monday, and you quickly drift outside conventional norms. Retirement makes that easier than it should be. Clocks, calendars, and schedules lose much of their authority. When garbage day becomes your primary marker of time, something may be amiss.

Still, there’s a strange freedom in that.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about time more often. We all know our days are numbered; our time here is limited. Some days I feel every bit of my age. Other days—fewer than before—I feel ready to take on the world. I savor those days more now than I ever did.

And then there are the days when I look in the mirror and wonder who that person staring back at me is. Those are the days I wish I could both slow time down and speed it up—or maybe go fast enough to turn it back altogether.

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When Time Was Timed

Before I retired, time was timed.

My days were regulated and predictable. Time off was packed with family obligations. Work hours were counted, calculated, and reported. Clocks and calendars were front and center.

Birthdays, weddings, family gatherings, and yes, deaths—all markers along the timeline. I watched my children grow, go to school, move forward. It was all carefully paced, whether I noticed it or not.

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Traveling Without Moving

Now, with so much time on my hands, I find myself watching moments from the past.

The Beatles in 1964.
Mel Brooks and Anne Bancroft singing Sweet Georgia Brown in 1986.
Johnnie Carson—again and again.

These moments don’t just remind me of the past; they transport me there. And once I arrive, time feels endless. I’m not visiting—I’m present.

The same thing happens when I look at old photos of my children—infants, nine years old, frozen in time. I don’t just see the image; I feel what it felt like to take the photo. In that way, time never truly ends, neither backward nor forward.

A painting, a photograph, a song, a video—any of them can place me instantly in another moment. Joy, sadness, grief—they all return with equal clarity.

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Whose Time Is It Anyway?

These moments are my time, unique to me alone. Everyone carries their own private timeline, one no one else can fully share.

That makes me wonder:
Is time real?
Am I real?
Or am I just a brief figure passing through someone else’s time?

Are my thoughts only available in this moment? I think so. The old idea—I think, therefore I am—raises another question: if I stop thinking about time, am I here at all?

Those are thoughts worth pondering.

And if they get a little too heavy—
well—there’s always Excedrin.