What Are We Saving Our Lives For?

I am always late for work.

There. I've said it.

And the frustrating thing is that my lateness isn't caused by traffic or some unpredictable morning disaster. Most of the time, it is entirely my own doing.

I wake up and make my coffee. Then I get back into bed, which is right by the window, cross my feet, face the window and slowly sip my coffee.

And when I say slowly, I mean slowly.

I look at the trees. I watch the birds. I feel the morning sun on my skin. Sometimes I just sit there with my thoughts.

I really love these mornings.

I've also noticed something else. When I give myself enough time in the morning, my body usually does what it needs to do. A slow morning often leads to a bowel movement, which, as far as I'm concerned, is one of the must-haves of starting my day.

And so I find myself wishing for more time.

More time to sit.

More time to drink my coffee.

More time to maybe get outside and do some yoga or mat Pilates on the grass while the sun is still gentle.

But, of course, there is work.

Work starts at a particular time, and apparently the world isn't particularly interested in my desire to sit by the window and watch birds.

So I've been trying to figure out how to stop being late.

But somewhere along the way, I started thinking about something else entirely.

Time.

And what we are willing to trade it for.

We all trade time for money, but perhaps we don't all want the same things in exchange for our money.

There are people who work long hours because they want to travel. Some want a bigger house. Some want a beautiful car. Some want to be able to afford whatever they want without having to think twice.

And there is absolutely nothing wrong with any of that.

But I've started realising that I don't necessarily want the same things.

I want time.

I want to sit in the morning sun.

I want to drink my coffee slowly.

I want to walk.

I want to sit with my thoughts for a little longer.

This has even changed some of the decisions I make about money.

This month, I missed work twice. I knew I wouldn't get paid for those days. I knew exactly what I was doing.

In a strange way, I felt like I had traded money for time.

I also take an Uber bike or a taxi sometimes because it gets me where I'm going in about thirty minutes. Public transport would cost considerably less, but it could easily take twice as long.

So yes, I would save money.

But I would trade time.

And I've started wondering: What am I actually saving all this time and money for if I don't use some of my life while I have it?

That question has been sitting with me.

Because I think we are very good at treating the present as something we have to get through on our way to the future.

We save for later.

We work for later.

We exercise for later.

We take care of our health for later.

We plan and prepare and optimise, always with some future version of ourselves in mind.

And of course, there is wisdom in preparing for the future.

But there's something slightly absurd about spending so much energy trying to preserve our ability to live that we forget to live with the ability we have right now.

I can walk for two hours now.

Why shouldn't I take that walk?

At sixty, perhaps I will still be walking, but maybe two hours will have become one.

I can touch my toes now. My body is flexible enough to get onto a mat and spend time in yin yoga.

Why shouldn't I enjoy that?

Not because I need to prevent myself from ageing, but because this particular body, at this particular age, can do this particular thing.

And maybe that is something worth appreciating.

We are so obsessed with maintaining things.

Maintaining youth.

Maintaining strength.

Maintaining flexibility.

Maintaining energy.

Maintaining our bodies as though ageing is a problem we might somehow outsmart if we try hard enough.

I'm not suggesting we stop looking after ourselves.

Quite the opposite.

But perhaps there is another part of caring for ourselves that we don't talk about enough.

Enjoying what we have while we have it.

There is a difference between taking care of a body and constantly worrying about losing it.

And I think I've begun to question why every minute has to be optimised.

Why does every walk have to have a purpose?

Why does every morning have to be productive?

Why does sitting quietly have to lead to an insight?

Why can't I just sit in the sun?

Why can't I drink my coffee?

Why can't I look out of the window?

We don't just spend time.

We inhabit it.

And perhaps I have been thinking too much about how much time things cost and not enough about what they give me.

That thirty-minute bike ride costs more money, but it gives me time.

The two-hour walk costs me two hours, but it gives me something too.

The slow coffee costs me twenty minutes I could have spent rushing around getting ready.

But it gives me twenty minutes of actually being where I am.

And maybe that is the trade I am increasingly interested in.

Not How much money can I make with my time?

But What kind of life do I get to experience with the time I have?

Because I cannot buy this version of my life back.

I cannot buy back this particular morning.

I cannot buy back this particular body.

I cannot buy back the years when my legs could carry me for two hours without complaint.

I cannot buy back the flexibility I have today.

And I cannot know exactly when these things will change.

That's not meant to be depressing.

I actually find it quite freeing.

It reminds me to pay attention.

To walk while I can walk this far.

To stretch while my body allows me to.

To sit in the morning sun.

To drink the coffee slowly.

To spend time with people while we are all still here.

Maybe the question isn't whether we are spending our time wisely.

Maybe we need to ask a different question:

How do I build a life where the things I value don't have to be squeezed into the leftover minutes?

Because I don't want all the things I love to become things I will do when I have time.

I want them to be part of the life I am actually living.

And perhaps that means accepting that not every good use of time will make me more productive, healthier, wealthier or more successful.

Some of it can simply make me happy to be here.

I cannot buy time back.

So perhaps I should stop treating every good moment in the present as an obstacle to the future.

Perhaps the future deserves some planning.

But the present deserves some living too.

If I can walk for two hours, perhaps I should take the walk.

If I can touch my toes, perhaps I should get on the mat.

If the morning sun is coming through my window, perhaps I should sit in it for a while.

And if my coffee is still warm, perhaps I can afford to drink it slowly.

Even if it means I have to figure out how to stop being late for work.