All Our Yesterdays

When the days of the week blur together and feel like a vacation that’s gone on too long, remember that there is no such thing as time.

The earth will travel around the sun 365 rotations before it returns to where it is, right now.

And the means of measuring it are an exclusively human construction.

Dogs and cats don’t care about days of the week. Birds don’t care what time it is. They share their songs at all hours of the day and night.

Rocks and stars don’t measure the passage of time.

Because time doesn’t exist.

There is only “now” – disappearing into the unchangeable past and awaiting us in the unpredictable next moment.

Moments strung together like pearls on a necklace become a life, a century, an epoch, a millennium. And birds and bumblebees don’t care at all.

Humans invented time, in a vain attempt to control the uncontrollable progression of moments.

But there is no controlling the natural order and the natural changing of the seasons. And the seasons are as much about time as a shadow.

Shakespeare said it well:

“Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,

Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,

To the last syllable of recorded time;

And all our yesterdays have lighted fools

The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!

Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player,

That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,

And then is heard no more. It is a tale

Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,

Signifying nothing.”