Riding the Waves of Time: How Our Minds Experience the Density of Years

As we move toward 2026, I find myself reflecting again on something I noticed years ago—an intriguing psychological rhythm that shapes how we experience time itself. It isn’t measured by clocks or calendars, but by our perception: a kind of perceptual temporal density function. It may or may not be formally recognized in academic literature, but it resonates deeply with lived experience.

Think about how we experience decades—whether it’s our age (in our 30s, 40s, 50s, 60s and beyond) or the decades of history we move through. At the start of a new decade, there’s often a feeling of space. Time feels wide open. The future stretches ahead like an open plain. Hope, potential, and possibility dominate the psychological landscape. We stand at a fresh marker: 30, 40, 50, 2020, 2030… and there is a sense that we have “time.”

Then something happens as we move toward the mid-decade point. The years begin to feel fuller. Life events accumulate. Responsibilities deepen. Health shifts. Children grow, parents age, careers evolve, and the world changes around us. The texture of time thickens. We feel the density increasing—not just in the number of things happening, but in their weight and emotional gravity. We become more aware of the finite nature of time, more conscious of what has been done… and what still hasn’t.

This is the hump of the decade, psychologically speaking. It is where the decade feels its heaviest. Time is no longer a vast open field; it becomes a forest—alive, layered, sometimes overwhelming, and undeniably real.

Then, as we move past that midpoint, something interesting happens. We begin to feel a shift. The density starts to release. The years may not actually be speeding up or slowing down, but our experience of them loosens. The second half of the decade can feel like coasting downhill after a long climb. We have accepted more of what is, rather than clinging to what might have been. We adjust expectations. We find rhythm. There may be a quiet grace here.

Yet as we near the boundary of the next decade, the psychological tempo compresses again. Suddenly, the next marker looms. Another birthday ending in zero. Another cultural timestamp that reminds us that time is moving forward whether we are ready or not. And once again, perception thickens, then resets when we cross that threshold into the “fresh” decade ahead.

This phenomenon isn’t just abstract. It affects well-being. At the beginning of a decade, we often feel energized. In the middle, we may feel pressured, reflective, evaluated by our own inner judge. Near the end, we feel a push—a compression of urgency, a desire to make meaning before the next marker arrives.

Perhaps this is how the human psyche processes continuity. Perhaps it is how we negotiate mortality. Or maybe it is a cognitive coping mechanism: our brain organizing time in psychologically manageable chapters.

As we stand near the opening of another mid-decade horizon, many of us feel it: the complexity, the fullness, the strange compression of significance. But rather than letting it become a source of anxiety, perhaps we can view it as an invitation.

An invitation to slow down inside the density. To honor what has accumulated. To release what cannot travel forward. To savor what remains open.

Time is not only something that passes—it is something we inhabit. And understanding the rhythm of how we psychologically experience it can give us compassion for ourselves and others as we move through the unfolding seasons of our lives.

As we journey toward 2026 and beyond, may we acknowledge the weight of the years, but not be burdened by them. May we find presence inside the density and grace in the flow. And may each decade, no matter where we stand within it, remind us that life is not simply measured in time… but in meaning

The Uneven Measure of Life

Some of us are granted long and layered lives.

Lives filled with love, work, mistakes, second chances, and moments of grace we did not always recognize at the time. We grow old enough to reflect, to revise our understanding of who we were and who we became. We accumulate stories. We are allowed, by fortune or chance, to complete arcs.

Others are not.

Their lives are taken too soon—not through fault, not through choice, not through moral failing. Many are children, still forming their sense of self, still trusting the world to be a place that will hold them. Some are helpless in ways that make the loss even harder to reconcile. And some are not even human, yet feel no less present in the web of life that sustains us all.

These early endings leave holes.

They leave holes in the hearts of those who loved them—parents, partners, friends, companions—who must continue living while carrying an absence that never fully closes. But they also leave holes in the collective psyche. Quiet questions linger long after the ceremonies and condolences fade. Questions about meaning. About fairness. About justice. About whether the universe keeps score, or whether we are simply witnesses to an uneven distribution of time.

When lives are cut short, we are forced to confront a truth we often try to avoid: that longevity is not merit-based. Time is not awarded according to goodness, usefulness, or love. It is not fair in any way we would design if fairness were ours to define.

And yet, here we are—those who remain.

For those of us who have lived long and rich lives, this realization carries an uncomfortable responsibility. Not guilt, but awareness. Not shame, but stewardship. If we have been given time that others were denied, what are we doing with it? Are we using it to deepen compassion, to widen our moral circle, to protect those who are vulnerable—human and nonhuman alike?

Loss has a way of stripping away illusion. It reminds us that life is not primarily about accumulation, status, or certainty. It is about presence. About care. About how we show up for one another while we can.

Perhaps meaning is not found in explaining why some lives end too soon. Perhaps meaning emerges in how we respond to those losses—in how we carry forward the love that no longer has a place to land, in how we refuse to let indifference be the final word.

Justice, in this sense, may not be cosmic or immediate. It may be something far more fragile and human. It may live in our choices: to protect rather than exploit, to remember rather than forget, to act with tenderness in a world that so often feels indifferent.

The holes remain. They always will.

But sometimes, if we are attentive, they become spaces through which deeper empathy enters. And in that quiet opening, life—uneven, imperfect, and precious—asks us not for answers, but for care.

Understanding Orangutans Is a Meditation Into Our Own Being

There are moments in the forest—quiet, humid, suspended in time—when the line between observer and observed dissolves. When the breath of an orangutan, slow and deliberate, becomes the breath of the human watching. When the rustle of leaves above is not simply a sign of movement but an invitation to awareness.

Understanding orangutans is not merely a scientific pursuit or an exercise in ethology. It is an inward journey. A kind of meditation. A way of remembering a part of ourselves we have nearly forgotten.

In the stillness of the canopy, stripped of the digital noise and the relentless demands of modern life, we meet a different version of ourselves—the one that knows how to be, how to wait, how to listen.

A Mirror in the Forest

For decades I have watched orangutans move with a mindfulness that borders on the sacred. Every gesture is intentional. Every pause meaningful. They do not rush, yet they do not waste time. They navigate the world with a clarity that feels almost foreign in our era of screens, distractions, and perpetual urgency.

To truly understand them, I’ve had to shed layers of my own conditioning—my need to categorize, interpret, and control. Orangutans defy hurry. They ask us to slow down. Sometimes they insist.

And in that slowing, something profound happens.

You begin to sense that your mind is not separate from the forest around you. That the distinction between “self” and “other” softens. That the orangutan gazing back at you is not inviting you to decode her, but to remember yourself.

Oneness Without Pretension

People often imagine mindfulness as a technique—a set of steps to calm the mind. But in the presence of an orangutan, mindfulness is not a practice. It is simply what is.

When you lock eyes with a mother orangutan who is nursing her infant high above the forest floor, you feel time loosen its grip. Her patience is not cultivated. It is embodied. Her awareness is not forced. It is natural.

She teaches without speaking:

Slow down.

Watch closely.

Trust your senses.

Take only what you need.

Let life unfold instead of forcing it.

And in that moment, stripped of our human striving, we are reminded of a primordial truth: stillness is not something we acquire—it is something we return to.

The Forest as a Clearing of the Mind

The modern world trains us to live in a constant outward orientation. Our attention pulled from one notification to the next. Our thoughts scattered across obligations, fears, ambitions. But the forest has its own rhythm, and orangutans abide by it without apology.

When you follow an orangutan through the canopy for hours, you enter that rhythm too. The mind begins to settle. The body matches the pace. Thoughts no longer rush; they meander.

This is not escapism. It is reacquaintance.

A reunion with the quieter parts of ourselves.

A Lesson in Pure Being

To know an orangutan is to sit with a being who lives free from the trappings of technology, ego, status, or performance. They are not trying to be anything other than what they are. They do not posture. They do not pretend. Their intelligence is calm, measured, deep—attuned to survival yet suffused with contemplation.

In their presence, we glimpse a version of humanity unencumbered by our own inventions.

A humanity grounded in presence.

A humanity rooted in connection.

A humanity capable of oneness.

Understanding orangutans is not about decoding their minds. It is about reawakening our own.

Coming Home to Ourselves

When I reflect on my time with Princess, Siswoyo, Rinnie, Moocher, and the many other wild and ex-captive orangutans who shared their lives with me, I realize they were not merely teaching me about their species. They were guiding me back to something in my own.

They reminded me that being human does not require being hurried. That our worth is not measured by speed or productivity but in our capacity to attend—deeply, quietly, lovingly—to the world around us.

In the forest, with the orangutans, I learned to breathe again.

To listen.

To be patient.

To be present.

To be whole.

And that, perhaps, is the greatest meditation of all.

Honor the Echo

 

There’s a moment after any meaningful learning—whether a class, a field training, or a life-changing encounter—when the world feels newly tuned. You walk differently. You listen differently. You notice what you never noticed before. The teaching still hums inside you, not as loud as it did when the lesson was fresh, but as an echo.

And if we’re lucky, we learn to honor that echo before it fades.

I’ve come to think of these echoes the same way I think about orangutans moving through the forest canopy. Their presence lingers long after they’ve crossed from one tree to the next: a slight sway of branches, a few falling leaves, the soft memory of movement. The forest remembers, even as it grows quiet again.

So do we.

The Echo After the Training Ends

Many of us have had moments of deep attentiveness—workshops, retreats, field courses, meditation trainings, mentorships—that sharpened us. In the days that followed, we applied the new habits with zeal. We were more aware, more grounded, more patient, more focused.

And then life happened.

Tasks piled up. Old patterns returned. New urgencies replaced old intentions. What was once clear became background noise.

But here’s the truth: the echo is still there.
Even if faint, even if buried under the busyness of living—it remains.

My Own Echoes From the Forest

I think back to my earliest days at Camp Leakey in the late 1970s, when the forest was both classroom and teacher. Every lesson was embodied: patience, stillness, observation, trust. The orangutans taught me more than any university lecture ever could.

Rinnie’s slow, deliberate movements.
Princess’ careful stare before choosing to interact.
Siswoyo’s way of pausing—really pausing—before acting.

Each encounter shaped me.

There were routines I learned then—ways of watching, listening, breathing—that made sense only in a peat swamp forest where every decision is calibrated for energy and purpose. When I left the forest and returned to the rush of the human world, the attentiveness didn’t vanish. It softened into an echo.

And I’ve spent much of my life gently tuning myself back to it.

Why We Need to Revisit Our Echoes

The echo of a training is not a demand—it’s an invitation.
A reminder.
A call back to our better selves.

In my conservation work, in building the Orang Utan Republik Foundation, in guiding students, in writing books, in navigating the complexities of life with people and institutions alike—those old forest echoes have surfaced again and again.

When I rush, something inside me whispers: slow down.
When I get caught in the noise, something urges: listen.
When I face challenge or conflict, something steadies me: be deliberate.

These are not new lessons. They’re remembered ones.

Learning to Listen Again

Honoring the echo doesn’t mean returning to the past.
It means letting the past steady your future.

Maybe you took a mindfulness course.
Maybe you sat through a leadership retreat.
Maybe you had a teacher, mentor, guide, or even an animal who shaped the way you move through the world.

The echo is the remnant positive feeling of that experience—a resonance inside you waiting to be acknowledged. And the more often we pause to notice it, the louder it becomes.

A Simple Practice: Echo Retrieval

Here is something I do—born of the forest, but usable anywhere:

1. Pause. One breath in. One breath out.
   Just enough to become aware again.

2. Ask yourself:
   What was the last training, lesson, or experience that truly shifted me?

3. Listen for the echo of how you felt then:
   Clearer?
   Calmer?
   More purposeful?
   More alive?

4. Let that echo guide one small choice today.
   Just one.

That’s how we honor the echo:
not by recreating the whole training,
but by living one moment shaped by it.

The Echo Is Evidence of Growth

I’ve learned over 50 years in the canopy, in classrooms, in boardrooms, and in communities across Indonesia:
we are always becoming.

Training, education, and insight aren’t temporary events.
They’re seeds.

And the echo is the sound of the seed still growing.

So if you feel that you’ve drifted from the attentiveness you once had—don’t be discouraged. It only means you’ve been busy living. The echo is still in you.

Honor it.
Return to it.
Let it help you move forward with greater clarity, presence, and compassion.

Because the quiet lessons—often the oldest ones—are the ones that stay with us the longest.