I’ve been thinking a lot about time lately, and my relationship with it.
Last week, for example, I made a pot of chicken soup. The weather had turned cold and I was fighting a bug. Chicken soup seemed very appropriate.
When I make chicken soup I don’t follow a particular recipe. I brown some chicken breasts I’ve chopped into chunks and seasoned with salt and pepper. Then I brown chopped onion, celery and carrot in the same pot after removing the chicken, so they absorb some of the flavours from the browned meat. Once that is done, I put everything back in the pot, add some good quality store-bought chicken broth (I used to make my own but no longer have a very big freezer so I buy it) and let it simmer away for a couple of hours. About 15 minutes from the end, I toss in a handful or so of thin egg noodles along with some frozen peas, corn or beans and, voila, I’ve got nourishing soup to eat now and some to freeze.
Except last week I was short on time, or at least I thought I was, so I cut some corners. I didn’t cook the chicken in small batches and it didn’t brown as well. It kind of stewed rather than browning. I also cooked the onion, celery and carrot with the chicken and didn’t let it sit long enough to develop good flavours. Then I used a store-brand chicken broth that, while good for adding depth to rice and quinoa, wasn’t the best choice for soup. But it had been on sale and was about to expire.
When it came to taste my soup, the results were underwhelming. It was fine, but not great and definitely not my best. I ate it during the week and every time I did I was reminded that this was the result of rushing the process. That may have saved me time, but it resulted in sub-par soup.
As I pondered my sad soup I realized that I often rush through things because I think I’m short on time. I came to realize that I see time as an enemy I’m always trying to defeat or a stern taskmaster I’m always trying to placate.
In the morning, for example, I’ll feel pressured to get up and on with my day and neglect to spend an extgra 20 minutes in meditation or contemplation – or even just waking up slowly. When I do that, I’m not myself for the rest of the day, and I’m often less productive. Yet, in my head, I feel that clock ticking demanding that I get rolling despite what I know to be best.
I’m a reader, and I love bookstores. However, I’ve never been able to let myself wander and browse the aisles for hours on end. When I visit a bookstore, I’m usually a man on a mission – I get in, pick what I want, and get out. There are likely a dozen other things I have to get done after that, so I don’t dawdle. And yet, I often think about what I might miss in not spending a little time scoping out what other books might be available.
Someone much wiser than me once mentioned an essay that the Catholic priest Henri Nouwen wrote about our relationship with time. I have a copy of it but it got boxed up when I moved last year and I haven’t unearthed it yet. So I can’t specify the publication name or title of his essay.
What I do know is that Nouwen wrote about befriending time and discussed two different approaches to it: chronosÌý²¹²Ô»åÌýkairos. When we experience time in ³¦³ó°ù´Ç²Ô´Ç²õÌýmode, we see it as scarce and ever-dwindling. It’s an enemy. We have to get things done before we run out of time. Kairos on the other hand, is a way of befriending time that grows out of an attitude of contemplation and compassion, both for ourselves and others. °²¹¾±°ù´Ç²õÌýtime is a gift to be experienced moment by moment with wonder and awe.
I wish I had the essay to quote from, but I think that gives a good sense of what it’s about. In essence, Nouwen is saying we need to shift our concept of time from ³¦³ó°ù´Ç²Ô´Ç²õÌý³Ù´ÇÌý°ì²¹¾±°ù´Ç²õ.ÌýAs we do that, time expands, and we have enough. We’re not racing around and missing out. Instead, we’re focused on what needs our attention right now.
Living in kairos time, we probably take a moment for ourselves in the morning to set a good pattern for the day. We’ll linger in a bookstore to savour that endless bounty that is the written word.
And we’ll probably make much better tasting soup.
Kevin Aschenbrenner is a Victoria-based writer, poet and communications professional. He holds an M.A. in Culture and Spirituality from the Sophia Center at Holy Names University in Oakland, Calif. He blogs at .
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