Pondering what these large spans of time mean to our lives, it occurred to me that they mean very little — that it's the minutes, seconds, even nanoseconds, that really count.
Some of the deepest and most poignant moments we ever have are fleeting, transient. You turn away to tell someone about something you see, like an oddly shaped cloud that hovers over the mountain, a crystalline clear reflection in a lake, or ravens playing in the wind, but turn back and the scene is gone.
You drive somewhere early in the morning and see the crimson glow of sunrise on the mountains, and you marvel at nature's paint brush. By the time you get to where you're going, the sky canvas has faded to a muted blue-gray, as have the intense feelings you experienced.
On outings with your kids or friends, you might think that these activities will go on forever — that you'll always be doing fun, weird things like weenie roasts in winter, wild sled rides or winter moonlight walks. But kids grow up and friends move away.
Magical moments like these have a way of coming in and out of our range of perception — like phantoms.
Anyone who has observed the aurora borealis knows how quickly its dance can begin and end. A lot of people never see the aurora — not because they aren't at the right place at the right time, but because they aren't looking for it.
I don't look as closely at weeks or months or years as I do moments, and moments inside moments. I've come to realize they only come round once, if we're lucky. The joke my son or daughter tells, the crazy way my dog leaps into the air, the smell of a live Christmas tree inside the house, the way the moon lights up the mountainsides, the way a stranger will sometimes smile and let me know in a special, silent way that everything is OK in his or her universe ... the breathless silence after a heavy snowfall. These are the things that stay with me; the tiny increments that make up the hours and days and weeks and years.
When we're young, of course, time is expanded — passing very slowly compared to when we grow older. There's probably a scientific explanation for this. Perhaps young people, with their relatively new and growing brains, have more neurons firing simultaneously than in older persons. Consequently, they would be more actively aware of more things, both internally and externally, which would most certainly make them feel as if time were passing more slowly.
Of course, age is only part of it. I'd wager that for just about anyone, standing in line at the state Department of Motor Vehicles for 20 minutes seems infinitely longer than spending the same amount of time eating a delicious meal or opening Christmas presents. At the subconscious level we have the unique ability to significantly alter our perception of time. It's probably why we're sometimes baffled by déjà vu — that feeling an event or circumstance happened before. It's my guess the event is happening for the very first time, but because of a slight time delay in the brain's synapses, we perceive it happened before.
Don't ask me to prove any of this. I have a hard enough time making my own brain's synapses function in a semi-acceptable way, let alone determine how they actually work. People refer to outer space as the final frontier, but without hesitation, I'd assign that distinction to the human brain — inner space.
This brings me back to those prized moments. We can make them happen, but more often they seem to occur on their own. The best we can do is to be ready and try to make the most of them. I'm reminded of a couple of lines by the late poet William O. Stafford: "How we stand here is important ... how we listen for the next things to happen."
With Thanksgiving and Christmas in the offing, holiday get-togethers with friends and family will offer plenty of opportunities for memorable moments. We just have to grab them.
Frank E. Baker is a freelance writer who lives in Eagle River. Email him at frankedwardbaker@gmail.com.
The views expressed here are the writer's own and are not necessarily endorsed by Alaska Dispatch News, which welcomes a broad range of viewpoints. To submit a piece for consideration, e-mail commentary(at)alaskadispatch.com