I look around Rosa’s
room at the treasures of childhood.
A wooden doll’s house
with a roof that opens to reveal little people and miniature furniture. They
were once the protagonists in many fairy-tale adventures but now rest in quiet
contemplation.
A pencil and charcoal
portrait of my daughter sketched by a street artist on Charing Cross Road for
ten pounds. Although the picture only has a passing resemblance to her
features, it nevertheless captures a moment in time. A content eight-year-old
girl on the way home from a West End musical. A proud father looking at the
artistic creation unfolding on the easel on a cool April evening.
A metal box
overflowing with pens, pencils and artist’s materials of all types. Felt-tips long
dried out; broken pastels; assorted paintbrushes encrusted with the remnants of
different watercolours; blunt pencils crying out for a sharpener. The box sits
on the corner of a wooden desk that is stained with the labours of youthful creativity.
A dusty bookshelf
crammed with something for all ages. Beatrix Potter, Roald Dahl and a set of Mr
Men books shouldering history textbooks and a large Oxford English dictionary.
Sitting proudly atop
the bookshelf is the clock.
A classic child’s alarm
clock, with a metal clanger and a face with boldly printed numerals from one to
twelve. Pink of course.
I listen keenly to its
metronomic ticking.
At first the sound is
comforting: constant, trustworthy, reliable, as sure as the moon and the sun.
(At least until the battery needs changing.)
But as I continue to
listen, the ticking starts to take on a different persona. Relentless,
unfeeling, unforgiving. Menacing even.
I feel my life
slipping away with every click of the second hand.
How many neurons did I
lose today? How many will die tomorrow?
I focus my mind on
slowing down the clock, willing the second hand to take longer as it stutters
around the face. Instead the ticks at first seem to speed up a little before
settling back into the same never-ending rhythm.
Einstein’s Theory of
Relativity teaches us that there is no fixed time, and that we each follow our
own clock which may vary from someone else’s clock according to where we are
and how fast we are moving. Precise experiments have confirmed this to be true;
an astronaut returns to Earth very slightly younger than his or her family who
stayed at home. An atomic clock left on top of a mountain will read slightly
differently from one left at sea level when brought back after a few weeks, due
to the marginally different strength of the Earth’s gravitational field between
the two locations.
Be that as it may, we
cannot change the rate at which our individual clocks tick. From our own
perspective we still age at the same rate regardless of whether we are living
at high altitude or travelling close to the speed of light. The second hand on
the watch we wear moves at the same speed, even if it may differ marginally
from someone else’s timepiece. So, Relativity, truly remarkable though it is, doesn’t
help us master time.
Although the passage
of our individual time is unrelentingly constant, our perception of time can and does vary. Rosa’s teenage years will
seem to her like an eternity. Those very same years will feel as if they pass
much faster for me.
The prevailing theory is that it is the brain’s processing of new information and the creation of new memories – the wiring of new neural connections – that slows down our perception of time; conversely when we are doing nothing new – in effect just using established neural pathways – time feels like it speeds up.
Have you ever had a long weekend where you travelled somewhere new, did lots of memorable things and were stimulated by novel sounds, smells and tastes? Did those three days seem more like three weeks?
The prevailing theory is that it is the brain’s processing of new information and the creation of new memories – the wiring of new neural connections – that slows down our perception of time; conversely when we are doing nothing new – in effect just using established neural pathways – time feels like it speeds up.
Have you ever had a long weekend where you travelled somewhere new, did lots of memorable things and were stimulated by novel sounds, smells and tastes? Did those three days seem more like three weeks?
And have you ever had a week or a month that was boring and unmemorable. And it seemed to pass by in a flash?
Did you ever walk from
A to B in some new place and then find that the walk back from B to A somehow
felt much quicker?
I think this theory is
right. When the brain is dealing with lots of new information flooding in, it
works at the pace of the slowest part of the processing, resulting in the
perception that time is running more slowly.
In summary, it’s
impossible to halt the march of time, but it is possible to make it seem a
little longer by experiencing new things.
And that gives me some
comfort. I can never control time itself but I do have some control over my personal
experience of time. By doing new things - by stimulating my brain to keep developing
- I can not only enjoy life but I can feel as if that enjoyment lasts longer
too.
Are these the words of
a condemned man clutching at straws? Perhaps. Though I prefer to think of this
as doing what I can to take control of my destiny.
I take one last look
at Rosa’s room. Indulging in nostalgia is enjoyable and something I will
continue to do.
But the clock is still ticking.
It's time to crack on.
It's time to crack on.
