Carrying Time in Bags

“Every noon as the clock hands arrive at twelve,

I want to tie the two arms together,

And walk out of the bank carrying time in bags.”– Robert Bly

Time… that one invisible currency we all think we have an endless supply of. Until we don’t.

I was working with a client recently who had just been diagnosed with cancer. The doctor told him he had two years to live. As they reviewed his chart, the doctor looked up and said, “Congratulations on your diagnosis.”

My client was stunned. He thought he misheard. The doctor continued, “Because now you’re going to start living your life.”

Harsh. True. Undeniable.

He explained that when people receive a terminal diagnosis, something shifts. The noise drops out. The priorities become painfully clear. They stop saving joy for later. They stop pretending they’re immortal. They finally start living.

It hit me like a gut punch.

How many of us are waiting for a wake-up call that drastic before we actually start living? How many of us are quietly dying in the comfort of distraction—doom-scrolling, comparing, numbing, planning to feel alive… someday?

We put off happiness. We delay rest. We defer love and laughter and forgiveness until some mythical “better time.” We say we’re too busy, when what we really are is afraid—afraid to slow down long enough to feel the weight of what we’ve been avoiding.

The truth is, most of us are stuck in survival patterns. Our nervous systems are addicted to pressure—always chasing the next thing, avoiding stillness like it’s the plague. We confuse busyness with meaning, and comfort with peace.

But peace doesn’t come from comfort. It comes from presence.

When Bly wrote about wanting to “walk out of the bank carrying time in bags,” I think he was naming that longing in all of us—the hunger to reclaim time from the system that steals it. We trade our days for paychecks, our creativity for convenience, our vitality for productivity. Then we look up and realize we’ve been living on autopilot.

So let me ask you the uncomfortable question: if you knew you had two years left to live, what would change?

Would you still waste time arguing with strangers online? Would you keep grinding for validation in a job you hate? Would you hold back the words “I love you,” waiting for the perfect moment that may never come?

Or would you start painting again, calling your parents, watching sunsets without multitasking them away? Would you finally exhale?

The paradox of mortality is that it doesn’t take death to wake up—it just takes awareness. You don’t need a diagnosis to realize your time is limited. You just need to stop pretending it isn’t.

Every breath is a bag of time. Every moment is an invitation.

And yet, most of us walk around like we’ve got lifetime refills.

I’ve seen men and women come alive after near-death experiences, heartbreaks, or illnesses—not because the pain made them special, but because it made them present. Their nervous systems finally surrendered. They stopped resisting life’s flow and started receiving it.

Presence is the point.

You can’t heal what you’re too distracted to feel. You can’t love what you’re too busy to notice. You can’t live fully while running from the truth that you won’t live forever.

The clock is always ticking, but that doesn’t mean it’s your enemy. Time isn’t here to taunt you—it’s here to remind you that you matter now.

As I typed these words, a coyote walked past my window. Wild. Untamed. Entirely present. It didn’t check its phone. It didn’t second-guess its purpose. It just was.

Maybe that’s the real invitation—to stop trying to control the hands of the clock... and start carrying time in your hands instead.

Feel it. Spend it wisely. Because whether you have two years or twenty, this moment—right now—is the only one guaranteed.

So what will you do with it?