The Gardener of Time
a practice of discernment
I like this idea of the gardener of time. As a gardener of vegetables and flowers and fruits, gardening is something I participate in regularly, so what an intriguing idea to mull the notion of gardening every moment—literally tending each moment as time passes. On one hand, that sounds exhausting, right? Who wants to tend every single moment of every single day, always? Seems like it would take a fair bit of energy to stay that attuned to the present. There are other things to do, like worry about what’s going to happen next or in ten years. Or lament opportunities missed, or ensure painful moments remain on repeat in your mind.
However, what if putting energy toward paying attention to present moments returned that energy in kind? The need to think ahead from time to time won’t just vanish, of course. Sticking to a schedule remains necessary for most people. Reminiscing can be healing to exist within now and then. And I’d imagine everyone but the most enlightened beings1 fall into lament or worry every once in awhile no matter how robust one’s mindfulness practice. Yet giving energy to the embodied happenings as they unfold in real time has the power to provide fuel for continued tending.2
Become a gardener of time to claim your place on the throne of stillness— such cultivation ensures each moment passes just how it's meant to— not too quick nor too slow, rather simply existed within, a perch worth returning to moment by moment, again and again.
Author Jenny Odell wrote in her book Saving Time: “Would it be possible, not to save and spend time, but to garden it—by saving, inventing, and stewarding different rhythms of life?”
As school starts this week, and my 7th grader gets into a rhythm that includes a schedule with three minute passing periods and 51 or 53 minute class sessions, and a 21 minute lunch, and the cultural norm to engage in multiple extracurricular activities, I'm reminded of how important it is to leave space, to nourish the moments (even if they're scheduled minute to minute), and to steward a pace that allows enough noticing to refuel.
Gardening time sounds like the way to go. We can plant seeds, thin what’s not necessary, nourish, tend, harvest, and compost. We can reinvent how we interact with the moments to see if the rhythm created by doing so helps us, and the world, to heal just a little bit more. We can fortify ourselves by noticing at the pace that's right for now.
A Practice of Discernment
First, avoid scheduling your epiphanies,
and leave ample room for slowly questioning things
like where beauty lives inside tarnished pots or how snails
cultivate time or why a ripe berry recognizes its moment to let go.
Next, set aside everything you think you know
about what you're trying to figure out and consider
what possibilities exist when everything is mystery.
Let that not knowing lead directly toward the heart
of the inquiry, along with any answers found
by accepting there is no one right way
to find your path—there is just a practice
of listening to what wants to speak through you
as discovery learns where you rest your head at night.
You may find you're been on the path all along,
even if very little becomes clear as you find
a new appreciation for the soft fog of ambiguity.
Here’s to the tending.
Maybe even them.
Granted, sometimes you just need a break from the present—I’m not saying zoning out to your favorite show or doing something mindless when your attention needs a respite (especially during very challenging life seasons) isn’t valuable and replenishing from time to time as well. It’s a matter of finding the ratio that works best for what life is offering up/throwing down.