“It is not reality that has a time flow, but our very approximate knowledge of reality. Time is the effect of our ignorance.” —Carlo Rovelli

mys·ti·cism n.
1. a. Immediate consciousness of the transcendent or ultimate reality or God.
b. The experience of such communion as described by mystics.
2. A belief in the existence of realities beyond perceptual or intellectual apprehension that are central to being and directly accessible by subjective experience.
3. Vague, groundless speculation.
(The American Heritage® Dictionary of the English Language, Fourth Edition copyright ©2000 by Houghton Mifflin Company. Updated in 2003. Published by Houghton Mifflin Company. All rights reserved.)

Two things this week made me think about time. The first was my running. I ran twice as far Monday as I did last Friday. I'm on target for six weeks out, but I definitely didn't expect to be when I finished that Friday run. The second was that I received some completely unexpected help on a project. This help cut two weeks off the time it would have taken me to do the project on my own.

I’m just saying that sometimes things just don’t take as long as I believe they will, and that still always surprises me. Breakthroughs can come unexpectedly and sometimes inexplicably, and sometimes are so subtle I barely notice them. I think noticing them makes life more interesting, so I try to pay attention. Speculating about their advent allows me to believe there is a possibility of mastery, a chance that I can learn to summon little miracles.

If you are familiar with Esther and Jerry Hicks and their work with Abraham, then you will recognize their take on the illusion of space and time in this video:



As I neared the end of my run Wednesday morning, I was passed by another runner. She was older than I am by maybe ten years; since she came from behind (and from nowhere, because I hadn’t seen her in any direction before I turned the corner) I only caught a glimpse of her face as she passed. Questions came to mind that I wanted to ask her, and I thought if she slowed down or stopped near where I would end my run I would talk to her. But she was still running and long gone by the time I reached the pond where I start and end my runs right now. I could see her cerulean blue shirt way off on the street above the pond. I was faintly disturbed by how quickly the gap between us became kind of vast.

Later I thought how strange this encounter was. I’ve been walking or biking or, now, running in this area for years and never have seen her before. (Of course, there are a number of reasons that this could be so.) Plus, she really did seem to come out of nowhere. I decided that I had encountered a future me. She was about my size, only slimmer, with silver hair (mine’s still richly brown with only a few silver threads, thank you, but it will go silver eventually). If I consider this an encounter with a future me, then I have an image to hold on to while I continue my training, an image of me in several years being stronger, faster, more steady (and slimmer). I like that image a lot more than some of the alternative images of the aging process.

Could such an encounter be possible? Years ago I heard or read a statement that time is a human construct, not some force of nature. I know that Einstein addressed this idea. I’ve heard it several times since, and every time I hear it I keep trying to imagine life without time. I can experience the absence of time (when I'm painting, for example), but I can't seem to imagine its absence.

Anyway, I found this interesting article about the illusion of time: http://www.newscientist.com/article/mg19726391.500-is-time-an-illusion.html?page=1. The quote at the beginning of this post came from this article.

Finally, this whole post reminded me of a poem, which I will share in closing.

Love After Love

The time will come when, with elation you will greet yourself arriving at your own door, in your own mirror and each will smile at the other's welcome, and say, sit here. Eat. You will love again the stranger who was your self. Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart to itself, to the stranger who has loved you all your life, whom you ignored for another, who knows you by heart. Take down the love letters from the bookshelf, the photographs, the desperate notes, peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit.
Feast on your life.
—Derek Walcott