04/18/2026
We have made time into a commodity. We spend it, waste it, save it, lose it. We chop it up into quarters, semesters, and deadlines. "Hurry! Act now. Don't miss out. Time’s a wastin’!"
I have multiple alarms set on my phone to remind me of what I’m “supposed” to be doing at any given time of day.
One of my favorite poets, Mary Oliver, in her poem "From the Book of Time," offers a different way of thinking about this construct of time. Maybe just looking and listening is the real work.
I thought of her words when I came upon a Fraser’s magnolia (Magnolia fraseri) in bloom. And just beyond it, a tulip-poplar (Liriodendron tulipfera), both members of the order Magnoliales, a lineage so ancient it predates the very insects we associate with flowers. Bees had not yet arrived when magnolias first opened. Butterflies were millions of years away. The magnolia's pollinator is the beetle, drawn in by scent and rewarded with protein-rich pollen. This relationship was forged in the Cretaceous over 100 million years ago. There definitely weren’t any clocks around.
If a magnolia understands time at all, it understands it as a deep, patient commitment to form. The magnolia does not know the deadline, but it does know the season, the spring emergence of the beetle. It knows how to bloom, and it has known this, without a lot of revision, for over a hundred million years. We measure life in decades. Magnolias measure in epochs.
And yet the Fraser’s magnolia, the bigleaf magnolia, the tulip-poplar: their flowers last days. Days. The beetle has always known this. Millions of years of knowing exactly when to show up without any notification or reminder. There is only the bloom, and then it's gone.
Ponderings and pics by PAWhitener
Bigleaf magnolia images by Cory Tanner