Stopping Time

By Nina Raemont

“The hands of my wristwatch were no longer slowly circling the center of the clock; they had altogether stopped. Coincidentally, the world had done the same.” 

In late February, I had realized my wristwatch’s battery was slowly dying. I brought it home for spring break with the intention of replacing it. After the shelter-in-place laws were enacted, my mom told me that once “all of this” was over, we would get the battery changed. After a while, the hands of my wrist watch were no longer slowly circling the center of the clock; they had altogether stopped. Coincidentally, the world had done the same. 

I went about the first few days of quarantine coming to terms with the craziness of the outside world, inside. Every new statistic had sunk my spirit, and every cough or sneeze from a family member felt like a security threat. 

 I despised the repeal of routine the at-home restrictions bestowed upon me. It no longer mattered whether I attended class at 9 a.m. or 9 p.m. It no longer mattered what I would wear to “class” because no one was going to see it. It no longer mattered if I went to class because no one was going to be there with me. How interesting it is to realize our lives are so ostensibly autonomous yet tacitly performative. If nothing else, this pandemic has reminded us that we are a civilization driven by recognition and inspired by the individuals that live within it. 

The severance of this routine enabled another to be built. After glaring at the stack of books that I had been meaning to read, I thought to myself, “That journalism lecture will still be there 40 pages later,” and picked one up.

The books became my morning routine. I would wake each morning, open my windows for fresh air, and sit down with a cup of coffee and a novel. I began this pandemic with Malcolm Gladwell’s “Tipping Point.” On the cover, a single match stick and the words “How little things can make a big difference” are displayed. I didn’t need to read this book to know that peculiarly small things—let’s say, a wild animal market in China or one contagious individual—can influence the masses, but touché Gladwell. 

After “Tipping Point” came “Little Women.” I spent my mornings with the Marches, sipping my coffee and adoring the beloved women whose spirits and hearts hold messages that are equally as relevant today as they were in the 1800s: messages of love and loss, disease and death, ambition and hope, revelation and resilience. 

Taking walks around my neighborhood assuaged my anxieties. Getting outside, opening up your ears to the songs of the choir frogs and the swaying white pines; I apprehended that, although time has stopped for me, the natural world hasn’t felt a similar impact. The whirs of the world reminded me of a poem I had loved for years: Sara Teasdale’s “There Will Come Soft Rains.” Featured in Ray Bradbury’s short story of the same name, Teasdale speaks of the world after war has struck. One particular cluster of sentences repeated in my head: 

 “ And not one will know of the war, not one

         Will care at last when it is done.

         Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree,

         If mankind perished utterly;

          And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn,

         Would scarcely know that we were gone.” 

Many will debate whether this time spent in solitude is beneficial for the human psyche. Obviously, it comes with challenges that cannot be fixed with a book or a walk around the neighborhood. Our world is in peril, but that doesn’t mean that our spirits have to be as well. Now, more than ever, we must seek out the experiences that bind us to the human world we live in and grapple with the ambiguity we collectively face. We come to terms with uncertainty through the books and the life around us. We are not the first to experience this measure of sadness and confusion. We are not the last. But for the time being, we must enjoy the stopped time. My watch’s battery won’t be replaced for a while, but that’s alright; I don’t need to wear it anytime soon.