To survive means to compete successfully on all six time scales. But the unit of survival is different at each of the six time scales.
On a time scale of years, the unit is the individual.
It’s Sunday. I wake up naturally around 6:38am (né 7:38am), my body clock unmoved by the imperial order of Daylight Saving Time.
Around me, the collective lament of a half-summer still lingers. Those who crave heat resist autumn’s pull, but I’ve always favoured the transition months that carry us from one season to another. Summer, by contrast, has a stillness to it — simultaneously endless and ephemeral. Most people yearn for this: an eternal state of summer. But I’ve always craved the crisp promise of change that spring and autumn bring. For me, summer can feel less like a welcome friend and more like a dinner party guest who overstays their welcome.
This year, my internal clock has been running the seasonal calendar in reverse. As we slip back into coveted trench coat and boots weather — trading light jackets for layers and scarves — my own winter has been slowly loosening its grip. Spring isn’t quite here yet, but I can smell the mud, so I know it’s coming.
On a time scale of decades, the unit is the family.
The adage ‘spring forward, fall back’ is useful for remembering which way the clocks change, but it hits a little too close to home this season. I recently returned to my family home, retrofitting adult life into my childhood bedroom, following a break-up and hasty extraction from the flat we shared to give us the space (and time) we need for the next phase. Being on the cusp of my 31st birthday in my childhood bedroom is humbling, to say the least.
Beneath that, it’s also something for which I hold immense gratitude. Someone told me recently that 90% of the time we’ll ever spend with our parents is used up by the time we turn 18. That means we’re eking out that remaining 10% over the course of decades — and that’s if we're lucky enough to walk this planet alongside our parents for that long. Amidst the chaos of seasonal transitions, both planetary and personal, I’m grateful to be clawing back even the smallest percentiles of that precious time with family.
On a time scale of centuries, the unit is the tribe or nation.
For most, the extra hour an autumn clock change brings is a gift — another hour to stay out the night before, another hour to stay in bed and recover the next morning. For early risers, it means the temporary return of sunlight slipping through the blinds when alarms go off, rather than the darkness that makes getting up even harder. For me, it means little more than another hour of the weekend to fill.
As a heavy sleeper and reluctant early riser, I’ve honed tactics for coaxing myself out of bed during the darker months. My favourite and seemingly most effective is the sunrise alarm clock, a late-adopter purchase I made last year. The crescendo of artificial daylight my Lumie releases has made a remarkable difference to my morning routine, acclimatising my mind and body to the rude awakening of a new day — a master in deception.
On a time scale of millennia, the unit is the culture.
Being back home, I’ve gained a non-human conspirator in my loss of ability to have a lie-in: the dog. She prowls outside my bedroom door in the mornings, her animal instinct already attuned to my routine in just a few weeks. She has no sense of arbitrary clock changes dictating her sleeping patterns. I await the customary scratch on the door, and then comes the ungraceful barge of her body when her patience wears thin. Some days, she settles quickly on the floor beside my bed with an audible sigh. Other days, I can feel her hesitating before the jump, and then the full weight of her body lands on me, curling into any nook she finds.
On a time scale of tens of millennia, the unit is the species.
Now, I hardly need the clock or the dog to do the day’s bidding. My body is so attuned to a seven-hour sleep cycle that I wake up while my Lumie is still in its luteal phase — starting as a soft red that opens into a warm, daylight glow. In that half-hour of artificial sunrise, I’m caught between two worlds — one that is real, bound to this room, and another that I’ve built for myself, trying to hold onto light a little longer. Sometimes, if I’ve already opened my eyes, I stare directly at the glowing orb on my bedside table, watching its tone change until the piercing alarm rings and I run out of excuses not to get up. Other days, I resist, scrunching my eyes, willing an extra few minutes of shut-eye — like a child making a wish, just like I have done in this very bedroom years ago, probably wishing for simpler things.
On a time scale of eons, the unit is the whole web of life on our planet.
All of this (and yet none of this) is to say, that limited time feels like something of a tautology. Time itself is defined by the fact that it has boundaries — a beginning and an end. To say time is limited feels redundant, almost like saying water is wet. An extra hour gained one day only means an earlier sunset on another; the sum doesn’t change, only our perception of it does.
We measure it, mark it, and try to stretch it when we can, knowing that every hour, every season, eventually runs out and, in doing so, gives way to a new one. Maybe that’s why we savour the change in seasons, the longer days, and the extra hour of sleep. It’s a brief illusion of control over time’s flow — a trick we play on ourselves, like the deception of the sunrise clock.
Every human being is the product of adaptation to the demands of all six time scales. That is why conflicting loyalties are deep in our nature.
I’ve pretty much given up any grip I thought I had on time, at least for the time being. But the inevitable passage of it means that I am at its will, whether I like it or not. I think about my own place on the timeline: the shift between summer and autumn, the return to my family home, and the slow approach of another birthday — the flagship marker of time’s passing. As I sit here and type, at the intersection of time scales and seasons, it’s clear that change — no matter how slight or sweeping — is always just beneath the surface. The extra hour we gain, and the loss we pay for it.
what’s simmering
Days since last spag bol: lost track of time, but there’s a big pot cooking away on the hob for tonight’s dinner.
The quotes in today’s essay are pulled from a passage by mathematician and physicist Freeman Dyson.
Free therapy session with Alain de Botton. I’m not a regular listener of Jamie Laing’s podcast, but two separate recommendations for this specific episode made me take it seriously — and I’m very glad I did.
On repeat:
Beautiful.
Maggie Rogers 'Heard it in a Past Life' played on repeat for me following a breakup too. Here's hoping the transition period is full of healing and doggy cuddles.
I can SO relate to the picture you painted of avoiding the morning - rubbing your eyes - a child’s wish. Wonderful piece. I’m considering a Lumie for myself now 😂Thank you!