That is the question...
Happy Sunday. Regular readers might know that I'm mildly obsessed with the concept of opportunity cost. This is a fundamental idea in economics which states that the true cost of a resource lies in what the resource cannot be used for. In monetary terms, for example, when you buy a loaf of bread for one unit of currency (for example, one pound), you might be tempted to think of the cost of that bread as one pound, and in a manner of speaking, it is. However, its real cost, or opportunity cost is what other thing you could've used your one pound for instead of buying that loaf of bread. For instance, you could have bought a bottle of water instead of the loaf of bread, or you could’ve saved the money to accrue interest instead of spending it altogether. In this analogy, the opportunity cost of the bread you’ve bought is the bottle of water you didn’t buy, or the potential interest you could’ve earned if you’ve saved up the principal.
This concept is often applied to limited resources such as legal tender, precious metals and other valuables. That said, there’s a resource, which many don’t consider a resource at all, that the concept of opportunity cost also applies to, and it just so happens to be the subject of this essay. It’s something we all have, something many take for granted. It’s a resource that, unlike most resources, the wealthy can’t manufacture more of, and the powerful can’t control the supply of. If you haven’t guessed the answer to the riddle by now, I’m referring to time.
I'm mildly obsessed with time. I think about time a lot, which is ironic. I think about time because I consider it to be so valuable, and yet if I spent a fraction less time thinking about time, then I'd have more time to do other things with the time saved, which would inherently increase its value.
Anyway, the thing about time, as you'll know from your lived experience, is there's never enough of it, or so it seems. Modern society conditions us to wear our lack of time as a badge of honour, and you can spot this conditioning in the things we say. How many times have you heard yourself saying something like “I don't have time right now” or “I'm so busy”? Sometimes we say things like this with our chests out, as if to brag about how packed our schedules are, like this is something to aspire to.
I'm no stranger to feeling or looking busy, but over the last few years I've made a conscious effort to rethink my relationship with time, and I've done so by reframing it as a resource, something we have in fixed amounts, and we get to use to further our priorities.
This is one of my guiding principles in life and art, the idea that when I sit down to read a book, I'm momentarily foregoing all the other books I could be reading, or all the other things I could be doing instead of reading. This is liberating, because inherent in this practice is the acceptance that I can't read all the books I want to, or watch all the shows that interest me, or go for all the nice walks I’d love to go on, or write all the stories that pop into my head. This is therefore an exercise in presence, choosing to engage with the current choice of book, or movie or short story, and forgoing everything else at least for the moment, because life isn't just an endless to do list to get through. There'll always be another book, or movie, or short story that beckons.
It also signals intent. It makes a statement to oneself that one is choosing something over and above all the other things on the proverbial endless list, because the chosen thing is what’s deemed important. On this point, philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer put it best:
"The art of not reading is a very important one. It consists in not taking an interest in whatever may be engaging the attention of the general public at any particular time. When some political or ecclesiastical pamphlet, or novel, or poem is making a great commotion, you should remember that he who writes for fools always finds a large public. - A precondition for reading good books is not reading bad ones: for life is short." – Arthur Schopenhauer
The idea here is to do something because it's important to you, rather than doing it because it is deemed popular by society. Through this lens, we can create and consume with intention and purpose, rather than giving in to peer pressure.
This doesn't just apply to daily life, but to creative pursuits as well. As a writer, I'm often overwhelmed with the number of ideas for essays, short stories and novels I could write. There are so many songs I want to write too, so many guitar techniques I'd love to learn and practice, and so many instruments and skills I'd love to hone, but I've come to accept that even if I live to be a thousand years old, I couldn't possibly make a dent in the list of creative things I want to do.
The solution to this problem, I find, is to take a page from Oliver Burkeman’s work and treat your to-do list like a flowing river rather than a bucket. The idea here is to accept that the river will always flow, and the water you draw from it wherever you stand, is the water you need at that time. This frees you from constantly trying to draw water, hoping and waiting for the day you'll get to the bottom of the container, only to find that the more water you draw, the more water is left in it. You might as well be Sisyphus, condemned to the struggle of rolling a boulder up the hill only for it to roll right back down, and on and on for all eternity, and who wants that?
My new album, Hope on the Horizon, is out everywhere now. Not a fan of streaming and want to support my music? You can download a digital version or buy a CD now here. Thank you for listening, spreading the word, and reaching out to share your thoughts. I appreciate it. Have a great week.