The Created Life: Remembering Sacred Time

I didn’t realize how much time lived outside of me until I finally stepped away from it.

No alarms.

No back-to-back meetings.

No one expecting me to be anywhere at any particular moment.

And then something strange happened. I didn’t know what to do with myself.

I had no idea how long anything took. A day floated by like mist, and I couldn’t tell you whether it was two hours or six. Without a clock to anchor me, I felt… unmoored.

And in that disorientation, I saw it:

I’ve spent most of my life at the effect of time, not in relationship with it.

Not the time of moon cycles or ancestral calendars.

Not the time of rest, digestion, storytelling, or stars.

But the time of late starts, early deadlines, deliverables, and “are you free for a quick call?”

This kind of time doesn’t live in the body.

It lives on the wall. In our calendars. In our cortisol.

It whispers, Hurry. You’re behind.

It measures our worth by output and our days by efficiency.

But then I watched the series Yonder, and a conversation about perceived heaven pierced me:

Without time, life is meaningless.

And there it was — the paradox.

Because isn’t it also true?

Isn’t it the passing of time — the fact that nothing lasts — that gives life its shape, its urgency, its depth?

If we lived forever, would we cherish the taste of mango on our tongue?

If the sun didn’t set, would we gather around the fire to tell stories?

If we knew we’d always have tomorrow, would we say “I love you” today?

We were never meant to escape time.

But we were never meant to be ruled by it either.

There is a remembering here:

A sacred time that lives in the body.

That listens to the seasons.

That wakes when the birds sing, not when the iPhone chimes.

That knows when it’s time to move, time to create, time to rest, time to grieve.

Sacred time is spiral, not linear.

It is circular, ancestral, alive.

It does not care about your calendar, but it does care if you are listening.

So maybe the invitation isn’t to reject time.

It’s to return to a different kind of time.

To notice what your body knows.

To honour the cycle you’re in.

To live by rhythm, not regimen.

To let impermanence be not a thief, but a teacher.

Because in the end, time isn’t something we manage.

It’s something we remember.

And sacred time… it remembers us too.