The experience of time feels different at different times.
It might fall around you, like sands through an hourglass or you may find yourself trudging through it like a muddy riverbank. Time can slow down like nothing else, suspending our sense of reality. In the best of moments, we float along with it, guided by an unseen current that carries both the ephemeral and the constant without judgment.
Time shifts, even when we’re standing in one place.
Looking backwards, time folds in on itself, a pop up book of significant events. Looking forwards, time reaches out invisibly towards the uncertain.
Either way we cannot hold it in the physical realm or firmly grasp it in our thoughts. A side effect of long term projects is the marking of time. By growing something outside of ourselves we tie a ribbon around the intangible. It anchors our understanding of place within formless presence.
Time stands as one of the only remaining unifiers in this kaleidoscope world.
I traveled backwards through time this week: flying from Barcelona, landing in Heathrow for a blurry 2.5 hours and then curving across the earth for another 11. Once we landed, the odd sensation began of reliving a 9 hour time difference.
Am I tired or sad? Probably a little of both as I process this repositioning—right now the clock says 4:44 pm but my body thinks it’s 1:44 am. Waking up to a predawn sky outside my window brings up some dissociative feels (forgetting my own face in the mirror was one of my earliest party tricks) so I do my best to recenter in the breath and wait till sunrise.
Barcelona felt all too familiar and yet full of mystery I may never understand. I’m still haunted by the small glimpse of Costa Brava, Spain’s string of postcard beaches. The sand was coarse and filled with decimated treasure, ancient rock jutted out into the blue mediterranean sea. On that side of earth the sun sets opposite the ocean. Light fades from the sky in an all too subtle fashion. I still need to unpack my bags but if I do that means it’s all really over.
But with every ending comes a new beginning, right?
A year ago I began a new beginning: tomorrow NOW IS GOOD turns 1.
This is the longest project I’ve ever sustained with real consistency, created out of a desire to experiment with the concept of words. Imposter syndrome struck early and often but I owe it all to you, The Reader. Thanks for coming back every week so I must come back too.
I’m continuously surprised that I’m now building my castle out of words, because we historically have a love/hate relationship. Words have always felt like an obstacle first, utility second. They take time to come to me, sometimes leave me entirely when I need them most. If we could override language with nonverbal communication I think the world would be a much better place. Language is a tricky vessel; one moment it’s giving connection, the next it’s fueling misunderstanding. To convey anything meaningful through words feels foolish, yet we rely on them so heavily for most interactions. Humans are famously the most language-centric species, but much of our existence is governed by conflict and boundaries enforced by the very words that make us so special.
Maybe it’s not Word’s fault, maybe we as humans are not equipped to handle them properly. Like so many great gifts, we squander them in an effort to bend things to our egoic will.
But we lived and loved for so many years before developing an advanced language. We come from a wordless place. This must be why finding yourself in the silence of nature is one of the most transcendent experiences: a return to less which is often more.
Perhaps this is why Spring carries a reliable ecstasy. Without a single word, the world opens up and communicates the phenomenon of rebirth solely through our senses. It breaks down the realm of perceived possibility, igniting our connection to the earth if we’re willing to take it all in. Within the cradle of nature, our small fractions of time lose relevance. For the natural world, life and death are one and the same, rendering the passage of days powerless.
Words try to carve out a bit of that eternal experience in the hopes of preserving it. Despite our better instincts, we return to the challenge of describing the indescribable with limited units of language. It’s a sweet thing really, trying to put a frame around that which is boundless. We do so out of appreciation, out of an attempt at understanding.
But standing in the presence of everything with nothing to say about it might be the most honest way to spend a moment. To release and allow the experience to wash over you, like a wave at high tide.
I’ve spent a lot of the Winter looking at what I can release in order to fully welcome in the gifts of Spring. The season of renewal always comes with shifts in my personal realm and I want to be prepared to welcome them in. As of now I have a few things that I’m excited to share, one of which I can tell you today: if you’re a fan of Illusion Pod, Gabi and I are starting a Patreon. We began the pod 1.5 years ago, kept it going remotely and it’s only gotten more fun as time has gone by. I’m really excited to commit to regularly scheduled programming and see where it leads!
As things are shifting and other projects are coming into the mix—to be announced soon—I’ve decided to alter this newsletter slightly. Starting next week, I will only send out Wednesday dispatches. If you are a paying subscriber, your last dispatch will be Friday (I will cancel your recurring payments and refunds will be sent those who paid upfront for the year).
The option will be there to resubscribe just to support, but I want to make sure everyone can make that choice without feeling any pressure :)
With the changes coming to my schedule in the coming months, I won’t be able to spend the time needed to create paid dispatches that I can really stand behind. This is all to ensure I’m sending only the most thought out words, because I do believe they should be handled with the utmost care.
I’m more in love with this project than ever and most of all you readers who keep opening these emails week after week. Who knew I’d be so excited for another year of continuing to try and catch the formless—if only for a moment—with a butterfly net of words.
Thank you again for a year of expansion. Here’s to many more for all of us.
xx
James