Saving Daylight

Late tonight, most of us in the U.S. will turn our clocks back as Daylight Saving Time ends.

And I’ll be honest ~ I dread it every year. It's a change that I do not choose: earlier darkness, days that disappear before dinner with a long stretch of evening ahead.

Even though I know it’s coming, part of me resists ~ wishing I could hold onto the longer days and the abundance of light.

If you're feeling this too, you're not alone. There’s something deeply human about wanting to keep what’s bright and familiar from slipping away. That longing comes alive in this poem by James Crews, which I like to revisit this time of year:

Daylight Saving, Age Five
by James Crews

The night my mother turned back the clocks
I thought that while we slept the hours stolen
from everyone on earth would collect like coins
in a bank vault, so we’d wake up rich at last.
Even as my mother explained that it meant
only extra dreams in winter, only late light
returned to us with daffodils and rain in spring,
I was cupping my hands under every lamp,
keeping the fridge open, so the cold brightness
would pool at my feet. Honey, she said, it doesn’t
work like that. But I didn’t listen. I was seeing
daylight leaking slowly from the dripping comb
of the sun and into bowls, jars, and bottles ~
anything with a lid I placed on the window sills
to gather the sweet morning light I wanted
to smear on slices of bread, eat with a spoon.

from Every Waking Moment (Lynx House Press, 2021)

The image of a child trying to save the light feels both tender and true. And I love the way he doesn't listen ~ how he opens the fridge and puts out jars to collect the light, even though his mother says, "that's not how it works."

Maybe what I dread most about the end of Daylight Saving Time is that it shows me, so clearly, how everything changes. Our relationship with time is often tinged with a longing to hold onto what’s passing, or to stretch the moments that feel brighter.

And yet time does continue on, the light shifts, and maybe as the years pass we learn how to meet change with as much acceptance and kindness as we can.

If you’d like to practice with this, I invite you to put a hand on your heart and take three breaths:

With each inhale, say to yourself: the days grow shorter now

With each exhale, say: and they'll grow longer again

When you finish, notice how you feel.

🍯

Since we're turning the clocks back tonight, the sun will set an hour earlier tomorrow.

This morning I set an alarm on my phone for five minutes before sunset ~ to remind myself to go outside and notice the colors of the sky, the feel of the air, the sounds of that moment.

Maybe you’d like to join me and set a reminder for yourself, too?

This sunset pause doesn’t have to be elaborate ~ just a small moment to be present with what is, and to acknowledge that it's changing. You might put a hand on your heart, too ~ to be kind to the parts of you that wish things could stay the same.

Wishing you an easeful weekend 🕯️