_101305.png)
We all have our own little ways of thinking about, and describing time.
When do you say “soon," and how long do you mean?
How often do two people align on the exact timeframe for "almost there"?
One person’s “I'm running a little late” is another person’s “I’ll be there in a sec.”
Time, like an elastic band, stretches and contracts. It slips away swiftly during moments of joy and seems to stand still in periods of monotony.
"Soon," "give me 5 minutes," "we're almost there," and so many other verbal shortcuts referring to the slipperiness of time are said all the time. It's certainly not a bad thing, these linguistic tools help us grasp fleeting moments, making sense of the unpredictable cadence of time.
When supporting someone with moderate to profound developmental and cognitive abilities, the concept of time can pose a unique challenge. While resorting to shorthand is a common and instinctive strategy, it's important to acknowledge its potential to provoke or intensify anxiety for those receiving support.
For some individuals, a concrete understanding of time is paramount. If a commitment is made for an event to occur in 5 minutes, there's an expectation that it will happen precisely within that timeframe.
Conversely, vague expressions like "be there in a sec" can lead to confusion and frustration, as decoding such ambiguous statements can bring about anxiety for some.
Striving for clarity and consistency in time-related communication becomes an imperative aspect of providing support, ensuring that individuals with diverse cognitive abilities can engage with time-related information in a manner that suits their understanding.
In this month's blog, I've detailed one way I used to come into contact with and understand small parcels of time and a story about Robert - a wiz with numbers until he sees them on a clock.
Time in a Darkroom
Initially, my college journey was dedicated to photography, specializing in 35mm film. I particularly enjoyed crafting the photographs within the confines of a Darkroom, named that because of the conditions needed to control light reaching the photosensitive materials with precision.
Within the Darkroom, a film strip found its place in a projector, channeling light through the film onto light-sensitive paper. Once the accurate framing and focus of the image was assured, the next task involved finding the optimal amount of time for the light exposure.
To do this, a "test strip" is made by incrementally exposing the paper to more light at a measured rate.
Making a "test strip" made it possible to look at various exposure times at once to figure out what length of exposure allowed for the best image.
On the paper, I measured the accumulation of light over time. It was like time had a tangible weight to it, allowing me to gauge how heavy or light I needed it to be.
In this context, time wasn't just a measure of before or after; instead, it became a substance to be carefully weighed and manipulated.
Robert's great with numbers, but that's got nothing to do with time.
At one point in my career I supported a young man named Robert who thrived on routines and disliked surprises, often experiencing anxiety. To find calm and center himself, Robert often turned to solving math worksheets, typically focusing on three to four-digit subtraction or addition.
Numbers embody a certain solidity; 7 - 3 consistently equals four, and 1,018 + 242 unfailingly equals 1,260. For Robert, engaging with math problems offered a dependable anchor, a realm where certainty prevailed. In the realm of math, rules were steadfast, unswayed by daily fluctuations or individual perspectives.
However, despite our reliance on numbers to convey the concept of time and its progression, Robert faced a challenge: he couldn't read time, causing him considerable anxiety. The ever-changing nature of the clock, where the numbers shifted each time he looked, added to his discomfort.
The rules governing time seem oddly distinct from the straightforward nature of numbers. While 6 o'clock precedes 7 o'clock, the journey involves navigating 60 increments, each subdivided into 60 smaller increments, and 24 hours is a whole day but after 12 we start over at one.
On a digital clock, numbers are presented in a sequence from 100 through 1259, interspersed with a ":". The hands of an analog clock point in different directions with every glance.
60 seconds happen at a specific, universal rate, that it is not as simple as counting from 1 to 60.
Some people recommend saying "Mississippi" to calculate how long a second is. But, what if someone talks fast or has a stutter?
That's like saying a foot's length depends on where you’re standing!!
To his credit, if anyone asked Robert what time it was, he knew the script - look at the clock on the wall. Once he did that, he'd turn back to the person asking him for the time and say "I don't know." He knew the dance involved in what people do when they want to find out the time, it's just that when faced with the always shifting ticks and tocks of a clock he couldn't find grounding.
It always put Robert at ease when discussing plan's for the day to utilize events as the primary way of structuring time.
"We'll have breakfast, then drive to the mall and be back to eat lunch at home."
or
"Before we have to go to the movies, there will be more than enough time to use the bathroom and eat a snack."
as opposed to
"In ten minutes we have to be in the car because we need to get to the store before 4:30. The drive is maybe about 40 minutes long."
Time has a way of smudging numbers, akin to a worn eraser skimming over pencil lead—clarity diminishes gradually until what remains is a hazy gray blur resembling a word.
Time serves as a tool for both communication and grasping life's rhythm. Shorthand can either save time or make it more elusive. Its true value surfaces when its definition is clear and distinctly communicated.
Σχόλια