It's a gift to exist...

Beltane, microseasons and the illusion of time

Beltane passed this week: a sweet, romantic and much longed-for celebration that captures the eros and honey of spring. May is my favourite month. The hedgerows are bursting with birdsong, rivers are warming, flowers and bees dance together, and we are flirting with summer.

As the ancient festival wanes and the season continues to unfold, I’ve been thinking deeply about the beauty of these cycles. Each day brings a new blossom, a different weather, a hoodwinking moon. Weeks seem to be seasons of their own, much like the 72 microseasons observed in Japan. In that spirit, if I had to name this week, it would be: ‘full bloom of bluebells’ or the ‘arrival of warm sun’.

Illustration by Molly Martin

There are times when I don’t notice these small changes in our more-than-human world. Busy in my own doing or caught up in spirals of work, I miss the tiny wonders and markers of our seasons. I miss the in-between moments. Time seems to slip through my fingers as I scramble against the clock. When I finally come to pause, it can feel as though the world looks a little different.

I know I’m not alone in this perpetual busyness. It’s a kind of busyness that is often mistaken for fullness or productivity, at least for me. I read somewhere that “rushing only gives the illusion of time”. This stuck with me. Simple, I know, but it found a home in my mind. I often think of it like a mantra when I’m about to turn my day up to eleven just to get something done. It acts as a brake, giving me autonomy back over my day. Without racing to find the keys, send the email, or do one last thing.

The mysterious thing about time is how some hours can stretch into weeks, and yet years pass within hours. I remember school holidays as a child, how they felt golden and eternal. And yet, as an adult, twenty minutes of meditation can feel like twenty hours. I don’t have the answer for why this happens, but I do believe it has everything to do with our presence.

Mary Oliver famously said, “Attention is the beginning of devotion.” When we are giving life our attention, the fullness of presence, time slows down. There is space to slowly sip tea, listen deeply to a friend, or notice the unfurling of ferns in the woodland. Our heart can settle here, at a pace where we can be devoted to the things we love without a sense of urgency.

Morning rest with tea

There’s a quiet irony in writing about attention and devotion on a platform that so often fragments both. Modern life is full of a kind of cultural amnesia. Our phones, social media, constant connection and communication. To be in full presence is a practice, and one that requires devotion. It’s a continual returning to a place of slowness, a way of resisting the rush and the illusion of being busy.

To witness, unhurried and in awe, all the small moments of beauty: speaking to an elderly neighbour, sipping a coffee and listening to the ambience of the café, the tenderness of apple blossom. And perhaps, in doing so, to meet time not as something to manage or chase, but as something to belong to.

Time, after all, is ancient. It spirals around us in seasons and cycles, eternal in its mystery. Yesterday is now a memory; tomorrow, pregnant with dreams. As the land, skies and waters become full with the life of another summer, we are offered an opportunity to rekindle our attention, slow down time, and be devotional with our days. I believe that is a beautiful way to spend the precious gift of time.

P.S. The title of this post is inspired by a song called Time by Olivia Dean.

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