On presence, impermanence, and the grandfather clock that keeps asking if I’m paying attention
In Season 1, I wrote a blog post entitled “Be Patient with Me, I’m from the 1900’s.” It served as my small defense of embracing the analog life in a world that won’t stop buzzing. Less scrolling. More connection. Less hot takes and more long reads.
Well… this is the sequel I didn’t know I was writing.
On a recent trip back home to Oklahoma, my Dad unexpectedly presented me with an item of significant importance that caused me to pause and reflect deeply.
I left with a grandfather clock that was handcrafted by my great-uncle Elwyn Ellison in the early 1980’s. The woodwork was sourced from an ancient walnut tree that once stood on our family farm in rural Southeast Kansas—a tree that had been there since around the turn of the century.
That tree once shaded my people. Now it keeps my time.
And every 15 minutes, it reminds me I’m alive.
Getting It Going
My relationship with this clock didn’t start off well. Regardless of how many towels and blankets that Jessica and I wrapped around it (and shoved in the empty spaces), this clock bonged loudly with every small bump in the road… all 10 hours of our return trip to Kentucky.
Setting it up wasn’t exactly plug-and-play either. There was leveling involved. Adjusting the pendulum. Figuring out which weight went where. A few muttered words. A few deep breaths. A house call from an actual honest to goodness clocksmith. (who knew that was still a profession?)
But when the pendulum finally found its rhythm—tick… tock… tick… tock—the house started to feel different. Quieter, somehow. More grounded.
And then the first chime rang. A soft quarter-hour tone.
Then again every 15 minutes.
At first it just felt charming and novel. Maybe a bit nostalgic like the train whistle we learned to live with at our previous home in Anchorage. Honestly, Jessica is still deciding how she really feels about the clock and it’s time signaling. I think it’s growing on her.
But here’s what surprised me:
Every 15 minutes, I started pausing.
Not dramatically. Just… subtly.
Mid-email.
Mid-scroll.
Mid-thought spiral.
The sound would float through every room of the house and I’d think, Oh yeah. I’m here.
Bells That Call Us Back
That experience got me reflecting on the bells our family heard in the Buddhist temples we visited on our trip through Thailand. I went straight down a little rabbit hole of research. What I found made my hand-me-down clock feel a little less like dining room décor and a little more like a teacher.
In many Buddhist traditions, the bell is considered the “voice of the Buddha.” Its tone represents the Dharma or, the teaching itself, calling practitioners back to awareness.
In Buddhist tradition, bells are used to:
- Begin and end ceremonies
- Mark transitions between activities
- Call monks to prayer or meditation
- Purify the space and;
- Clear mental distraction
The bells in the temples don’t just tell time. They’re used to mark the rhythm of monastic life.
And every 15 minutes, in my house, something similar happens.
Analog Grace
In that earlier blog post, I wrote about how digital life fractures our attention, often leaving us feeling overwhelmed and scatter brained. Notifications pull us in a hundred directions, each ping distracting us from the present moment. We find ourselves caught in a relentless cycle, where every alert competes for our focus, making it increasingly difficult to engage deeply with any one thing.
Time becomes something we chase, slipping through our fingers as we attempt to juggle multiple streams of information, ultimately leading to an even greater sense of urgency and a longing for a more centered existence.
This clock does the opposite. It gathers time.
Digital time says, “Hurry up.” Analog time says, “Pause and Listen.”
Every 15 minutes, instead of a dopamine hit, I get a resonant tone that feels like a gentle tap on the shoulder.
Not: Respond now.
But: Be here now.
There’s a big difference.
The Tree That Still Speaks
What moves me most is knowing that this clock was shaped from a walnut tree that once stood on our family land. It wasn’t just any tree; it was a sentinel of our family’s history, deeply rooted in the very soil that nourished our ancestors. That tree witnessed life in its myriad forms. It saw storms rage and winds howl, bending but never breaking, standing tall against the elements. Its branches soaked in golden sunsets, casting a warm glow on the ground below, where I imagine gatherings took place filled with laughter and stories passed down through the generations.
Now, its wood houses a pendulum that swings steady and patient, marking the rhythmic passage of time. Each tick resonates with the echoes of my family’s past. This clock serves as a reminder to me that even as time moves forward, we carry our roots with us, forever connected to the moments and memories of our ancestors that silently shaped who we are today.
Every 15 minutes, that old Kansas tree speaks again.
And it’s not saying anything complicated. Just: Some of us are no longer with you. Make this moment count.
Tempus Fugit
There’s one more small, but important detail of the clock I only recently noticed. Take a closer look at the picture of the clockface embedded above. If you look closely, right there on the clock face, just above the hands, are two Latin words:
Tempus Fugit.
Now, I am no Latin scholar so I had to look this one up. I’m sure glad I did.
The phrase dates back to the Roman poet Virgil, who wrote in the Georgics, “Sed fugit interea, fugit irreparabile tempus” — “But it flees meanwhile, irretrievable time flees.” For centuries, those two words have appeared on sundials, tower clocks, and heirloom timepieces as both reminder and warning.
Time flies.
And once it’s gone, it does not circle back.
At first glance, it feels a little ominous. I’ll admit — reminders like this can tighten my chest. They nudge me into a quiet panic about how short life really is. They make me think about death, about my own mortality, and suddenly I feel the urge to hurry — to squeeze more in, accomplish more, experience more before the clock runs out on me. Hurry up. Make it count.
But the more I live with this clock, the more I hear those words differently.
Not as panic, but as perspective. Tempus Fugit doesn’t mean scramble. It means savor. It means the quarter hour you’re in right now? It’s already slipping through your fingers.
Every 15 minutes, the chime rings beneath those words. Time flies.
And yet here it is. Time made noticeably audible, measurable, inhabitable.
The walnut tree grew slowly.
My great-uncle built carefully.
My father handed it down to me deliberately.
Nothing about this clock feels rushed. That’s the paradox.
Time flies. So slow down.
Every 15 minutes, the clock seems to hold those two truths together in the same fleeting moment.
Yes, this life is brief.
Yes, it is passing us by.
So be here for it.
The clock now stands in our home like a quiet elder.
Sometimes I tune it out.
Sometimes it startles a guest.
Sometimes my wife gives it that look.
But then— Every 15 minutes— There it is again.
And lately, when it rings, I find myself thinking about my great-uncle Elwyn in his workshop in the early 1980s. Measuring. Sanding. Fitting joints by hand. Taking wood from a tree that had already stood for decades and shaping it into something meant to outlive him.
He wasn’t building a clock for me. And yet… here we are.
The walnut once drank Kansas rain.
It held up sky and wind and the laughter of children running past it.
Now it holds a pendulum steady in my Kentucky dining room.
Every 15 minutes, that tree speaks again.
And every 15 minutes, I’m reminded that time isn’t something to conquer or optimize or hack. It’s something to inhabit with our whole being.
In “Be patient with me, I’m from the 1900s,” I wrote about longing for analog love in a digital world. What I didn’t realize then is that analog isn’t just about nostalgia. It’s about things you can touch. Things that get a little more special with age. Things that require winding. Things that demand that you participate.
This clock doesn’t update itself overnight.
It doesn’t sync to the cloud.
It doesn’t vibrate in my pocket.
It simply stands there steady, wooden, human-made, and every 15 minutes it says:
You’re here.
This moment is happening.
Don’t miss it.
And maybe that’s the deeper gift my father really handed down. Not just a clock. But a small, repeating invitation to step out of the stream of noise and back into the room. Back into my body. Back into my own life.
Every 15 minutes, I get another chance to return.
And in a world that moves this fast, that might be the most sacred inheritance of all.
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