But spending pause time without meaning and expectation could become fatal.
L ast week I got engaged unexpectedly in a conversation about the loss of time and how we should use our time properly. As the time was passing by, the discussion seemed that was falling behind in content and themes to talk about, he decided to open up himself to another matter that was bothering him.
Quite often, I catch myself playing with my smartphone for more than a while or so, just surfing and scrolling on Instagram and Facebook. I try to read books from time to time but this is entirely different with my motivation when it comes to do other things. It happens to all of us. So, what should I do then? I was thinking of starter something new, a hobby maybe.
We long for free time or even spared moments that we swear to ourselves to spend them wisely.
For extra work, for our family, our significant other, for our personal thinking and activity. I may start with joy and strong spirit which may last for the first days. Call it tiredness, call it boredom, call it lack of ideal environment.
It may be good or it may be bad. If it is common, I was the problem, since I decided to follow the same guidelines. And when I got used to, it is even more difficult to escape. I felt lost in this turbulence of procrastination many times before and it could happen again from time to time.
As a result, approximately 10, students — a majority of them non-science majors —have learned about topics such as natural disasters and climate change in vastly different ways from their parents, or even slightly older cohorts. Nearly at the end of their five-year plan, EOS is now in the midst of a complementary curriculum reform. Giving the students time and space to think independently, however, meant relinquishing some control as Master of the Classroom.
Are they going to respect me? And for the next seconds the students were on the edge of their seats hanging on my every word.
Madison and Deslauriers recorded such data throughout the term and found that this critical attention span lasted less than four minutes. When he was home, he stretched out in bed and dozed with the TV on. He dubbed me his official chauffeur.
We raced down the sidewalks as I made vroom-vroom noises and harsh squeals for the brakes. Grandpa laughed and added some engine sounds of his own.
A few weeks later, I came home from school. Mom seemed dazed and pale. He returned home a few days later and died at peace in his own bed. Even though I had known it was coming, nothing can describe the hollowness that filled my chest. At his funeral, I took my seat in the front row. Memorial booklets were passed to us. I glanced down and gasped.
There on the cover was the ink drawing of an old house, the same one that Grandpa and Uncle Tim had talked about almost two years before. No wonder my uncle had been upset. They should have told me when I butted in. I rubbed my fingers against the coarse paper of the booklet.
Grandpa knew that I knew. He wanted me there with him. He did protect me, but only to a degree. I stared at the shiny wood of the casket. I thought about how Grandpa would answer the phone without his dentures in and make me giggle. I remembered his love for his sweet basil plant, and how he would ask me to bring it close so he could smell the fragrant herb.
All those days he probably felt so sick and awful he could barely move, but he still let me come over. Those afternoons together — that was our time to water plants, watch TV, and brown hot dogs until they burst. We both knew he was ill.