“What are days for?
Days are where we live.
They come, they wake us
Time and time over.”
Days by Philip Larkin
This poem has been going through my mind for weeks now. I’m sure I’m not alone in finding that my days often pass by like a speeded up film. Here I am again (and again!) readying for bed or brushing my early morning teeth, sometimes feeling that the day in-between has passed like a dream.
When we go to new places, or try new things, time seems to slow down. But before long, as we become accustomed to where we are and what we’re seeing and doing, it speeds up and once again we take our environment for granted. That’s why Marcel Proust said, “it is not about going to new places but having new eyes.”
So one counter-remedy for this feeling of life slipping through our fingers is reminding ourselves to spend as much time as possible in the present moment, being aware of whatever we’re doing … finding newness each time we climb the stairs, walk the same street or woodand path, talk to a friend. The more we do this, the more we conquer time and mundanity.
But for me, Philip Larkin’s poem has inspired a different take, one that also feels really rewarding. It reminds me that each day is an adventure, a story entire in itself, its opening and closing bookended by sleep. It is unique, unpredictable, full of content – enjoyable, painful, exciting or repetitious. No other unit of time is so perfectly boundaried – not a week, month, season, year or decade. The only equivalent, perhaps, is our whole lifetime, framed by non-existence at either end. But a lifetime seems too vast a container to relate to in the same way.
When my head hits the pillow, I may fall asleep more or less instantly. But if not, I can reflect on the day that has passed, recall its events, its highs and lows. And when I wake I vow to relish the day to come – one more day I am privileged and blessed to enjoy before – eventually - my time is up.
Finally a word about that mightly miracle that makes each new day possible –from our beloved Will:
“Sleep that knits up the ravell’d sleeve of care,
The death of each day’s life, sore labour’s bath,
Balm of hurt minds, great nature’s second course,
Chief nourisher in life’s feast.
Macbeth, William Shakespeare
