Thinking: About time...

Time’s been on my mind rather too much lately. Lots of small inconveniences and annoyances beyond my control, coupled with one or two large issues. A looked-forward-to deadline that instead now looms…

The saga of being a jeweller without a torch for soldering, which lasted almost six weeks, was swiftly chased by waking up to find a section of plaster and lath ceiling had collapsed in the night, all over my office and, thankfully, unoccupied guest room.

As a consequence, twelve busy weeks of work before Goldsmiths’ Fair must necessarily be compressed somehow into about six. In addition, delayed commissions must take precedence.

I once produced a completely new collection in three weeks flat after a trapped nerve in my arm freed itself in the nick of time. A decade later, I realise why time is described by those older and wiser than ourselves (there is always someone, usually the Ancient Greeks), as speeding up. In the realm of Chronos, we slow down, and not necessarily for conscious reasons of mindfulness, being present or living in-the-moment.

We become physically slower and stiffer, yet we also become more efficient, I hope. Experience grants us the ability to practice more precisely the application of our multi-layered haptic knowledge.

There are also, still, other calls on our time. Children may be grown, but have grapplings not solved by a hug, camomile tea or an ice-cream.

Simultaneously, in the role-reversal of life, our parent(s) may be increasingly confused, lonely, and fed up with it all. There is no longer conversation, just the endless repetition of lightly upbeat verbal routines to preserve calm. Our lines must be delivered, as in a role in a long-running play, with the necessary conviction, feeling and nuance every time.

The life-long friendship is brutally curtailed. It is over. The love remains so strong, however, the person is gone. The grief seems premature. I have been here before. It’s not easier the second time, just different.

The silver lining to this (and we have a duty to ourselves and our own sanity to seek these) is that one becomes more adept at recognising (and recalling) moments of beauty. Enter Kairos. The skill I’m trying to nurture is the ability to string these moments together and manifest the feelings they engender in times of difficulty.

I have a huge mirror ball in my East-facing kitchen. On a sunny morning it stops me in my tracks, makes me laugh, and all before coffee. On a grim day, memories of tiny squares of reflected sunshine dancing in the morning light will make me smile again.

A couple of radiometers on the desk in my workshop spin in the sunshine, unstoppable until a cloud appears. The whirling shadows they cast have an exuberance that, once recollected, raises a smile on a dark day.

I’m hoping that between my mirror ball, my radiometers and the ever-changing, big skies of coastal light, Kairos will be invoked to encourage serendipitous moments of critical occurrences of flow, resulting in beautiful new jewels.