Time and cinnamon rolls

My most Wendell-Berry-esque essay yet

This was my first full week in an 8-5 desk job. The work itself is incredible. But compared to the 20 or so hours I would write in Thailand, I’ve been thinking a lot about time as an asset.

On Friday I was visiting with some older cousins and their friends, all parents who are well into their careers. We laughed about a lot of things and implicitly talked around the subject of time.

I’ve always been flummoxed by early risers. My father is one. My partner manages to wake up at 4:00 or 5:00 in the morning each day, eagerly. It seems inhumane.

But when talking about mornings, my aunt relayed something she’d once heard from a colleague that finally helped “morning people” make sense to me. They said that as soon as they stepped out the door, they entered into the world of other people’s needs. The morning; dim, secluded, and quiet, was the only time completely devoted to their own.

My mom never woke up early. Left to her own devices, she was a night owl. The night was when she wrote poetry, found music, and wrote songs. It’d stress people out. Waking up to an email from my mom sent at 3:00 am the night before would aggravate her sister—what was Bennett doing at that hour?

Truthfully, I’m the same as my mom. If I have nothing to do, nowhere to be, and no one around, my circadian rhythm edges toward a 3:00 or 4:00 am bedtime. The night of reading and writing and watching things—that’s when I feel most devoted to my creator self, my spiritual self, my private self.

When folks were joking on Friday night about daily routines, I leaned a little closer. One parent was saying how critical it is to her to have one extra hour in the evening—their daughter falls asleep at 9:00, and her wife was in bed soon after. But she needs that extra hour of laying on the couch to watch something (or even just doze off) to feel like her life isn’t just working, eating, sleeping, and repeating.

For a western crowd, it seems far-fetched to imagine a life of mostly leisure with a smattering of work to get by. But that was what life was like in Thailand.

Not to say it wasn’t stressful. I didn’t have enough money most of the time, living paycheck-to-paycheck. Freelance writing jobs aren’t necessarily dependable, I’d never know how much I would make. But I could sit and drink tea and write for hours. Or run into friends and be whisked off into a new adventure for the day. I could dance late into the night on a Wednesday. I didn’t need to consult anyone or arrange for PTO to take a week to go to a monastery and meditate. Those are huge blessings.

But a subtler issue while living there was a muted, low-grade dissatisfaction. I was writing, sure. But what was it amounting to? Knowing that I wanted to help people, how was my writing doing that? Or my other odd jobs? I have the desire to be a therapist. To work with those in grief or crisis or pain. But how was the work I did in Thailand going to help me get there?

I was self-sufficient, but I wasn’t contributing to something greater than myself. And that gives my hours so much meaning.

Canned cinnamon rolls were another critical topic on Friday night.

I’m a baker. I love it. It’s an intuitive chemistry with delicious outcomes. But there are some things, as I shared on Friday, that I don’t think I’ll ever find a reason to bake, simply because the store-bought option is so damn delicious.

Annie’s organic cinnamon rolls are one such thing. They’re divine. I have them every Christmas. Who in their right mind, when that’s available, would go to the effort of making a sourdough pastry, letting it rise, rolling it out, making a sugar-spice mixture, coating the dough, rolling it, chilling it, cutting it into slivers, and then baking it?

My cousin said, “Our ancestors are probably shaking their heads right now at us,” and we laughed. Then someone else added, “No, they’re probably so happy for us—the fact that our time is so liberated, that we’re free to do cooler, more interesting things.”

Which begs the question, am I doing cooler, more interesting things? In some ways yes. But also, not at all. But what do I do when I wake up? What do I do before bed?

I’m attached (literally at the hip) to a small addictive device. Impulsively, I’ll open Facebook to scroll through Marketplace or check a notification, and then I’ll be hooked. Forty-five minutes later I’ll realize I’ve just watched a bunch of mind-numbing reels that walk the tightrope of entertainment and boredom.

I know myself. I don’t have a TV. I had to delete my Instagram. I don’t have TikTok. I never have and never intend to. But every social media is designed for your continued consumption, for your wired brain to connect and not let go. Our time is sacred. And Facebook has recently been a waste of mine.

Not to be completely disparaging—there’s utility there. We have whole circuits of commerce dependent on social media, at this point. And I like watching TV, I honestly just don’t have the space for it. Though I will admit, I do kind of resent the way modern living rooms are designed with the TV as an altar. Instead of being arranged for conversation and connection, it’s all about the God Screen at the front of the room.

(Also, full disclosure, two of my writing assignments this week were about the Metaverse and they thoroughly freaked me out. That, and a conversation with a second-grade teacher who told me that only one of her students is without a smart phone, makes me feel like a complete Luddite.)

But TV is an ideal way to disengage from life’s stress. It’s a great way to connect with whoever you’re watching it with, too, creating fodder for conversation and debate. And my goodness, humanity’s ability to story tell leaves me awe-struck. (I’ve recently been gifting myself with the slow journey through BBC’s 1995 Pride and Prejudice mini-series… Jane Austen, my god.)

With my time now segmented by the workday, I’m looking more closely at how I spend my free hours. Observing what makes me feel satisfied, relieved, or soothed. I’d like to make my ancestors proud, to use my time well and intentionally.

This week, it’s looked like cutting flowers for small bouquets. And planting seeds. Watching sprouts grow. Sewing pants for a new visible-mending kick I’m on. And honestly, compared to doom-scrolling or binge-watching TV, I’ve realized I’d rather bake cinnamon rolls.