Last time I was in New York, my Grandma gave me my Grandpa's old wristwatch. The battery had died after my Grandpa passed away, but I'd started wearing the watch anyway - at first with the intention of getting a new battery, and then, after I got used to it, as a reminder that nothing is permanent, further labeling myself one of those 'brooding, artistic types'. (My grandpa, by the way, never would have let me live this down - "If I knew you wanted a broken watch, we could have saved the money and fished one out of the garbage can," I can hear him saying, flashing that trademark grin.) Let's face it though, none of us really need a wristwatch to tell us what time it is nowadays, and this took on much more meaning: it was the watch that made time stand still. It also gave me the opportunity for a great pun; whenever someone asked if I could tell them the time, I'd say, "Not on my watch!"
The last few months have seen me through a big transition. There was my move to LA this summer, followed by what I'll call an "on-again, off-again breakup" with someone I had been serious with, which was long and difficult and eventually left me feeling uprooted in every sense of the word. I was experiencing the highs of our campaign, the new record, and being on the road, and yet, in the midst of all the attention and excitement, I found myself in that very private, painstaking process of re-learning to be alone. Maybe, underneath all my grand ideas of mortality and impermanence, this watch represented something much simpler that I would never have admitted: I felt broken.
Fast forward to a few days ago. I was passing a watch repair shop, and for some reason I decided it was time to go inside and buy a new battery. The woman at the counter reset the watch to the correct day and time, and smiled at me. "Let's check its heartbeat," she said, and placed it against an electronic monitor to make sure the battery was working. For a moment, I felt like we were doctors bringing a patient back to life. My own heart jumped when I heard the electronic click, click, click. Never underestimate the power of a pulse. It suddenly felt silly to have carried this broken watch around for so long. That constant ticking is the acknowledgement that we're here, rooted in the moment. It was like returning from a long sleep. I walked out of the shop feeling renewed, strutting at the heels of the new year - ready to begin again. It was the moment I had been waiting for.
Ultimately, we all decide when to stop and start that clock again. But it is incredible what time will do for us, even when we're not keeping track of it.
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