You Are Not Late

What Nature Can Teach Us About Change That Moves at the Speed of Trust

Somewhere between stillness and becoming, there’s a space where time softens and life unfolds without asking to be witnessed.

It doesn’t announce itself.

It doesn’t need to be seen.

It simply begins — quietly, naturally, like a bud turning toward light.

In this space, time isn’t ticking forward.

It’s loosening, stretching, breathing.

It holds what is forming.

We’ve been taught that becoming is a path. A ladder. A race. A climb.

But what if it’s more like the weather? Shifting. Subtle. Seasonal.

You don’t rush a blossom. You don’t force a tide.

Some things take the time they take, and yet, still arrive exactly on time.

Most transformation begins underground.

Not always visible, not always dramatic. But always real.

To live here, between stillness and becoming, is to trust what you cannot yet name.

To trust that presence is enough.

You are not late.

You are not lost.

You are becoming — even now, even here — whether or not the world is watching.

time

Time, as we’ve been taught, moves forward in a straight, predictable line. From past to present to future, like train tracks extending into the horizon.

We picture ourselves as passengers being carried toward something better, older, wiser, more complete.

But time doesn’t behave like that. Not really.

It loops, stretches, folds back on itself.

It drifts.

It surges.

Sometimes, it disappears entirely — in grief, in joy, in awe, in love.

In nature, time rises like a tide. It curls like smoke. It pulses like breath.

Some time is measured in minutes. Other time is felt in seasons.

…

There’s the time of the seed — underground, invisible, patient.

There’s the time of the storm — sudden, electric, impossible to ignore.

There’s the time of the heart — nonlinear, rhythmic, and utterly personal.

…

Not all time moves forward. In Māori cosmology, we walk backward into the future, guided by the past we can see, while the unseen future approaches from behind, shaping us silently.

The present is a living field where memory, attention, and possibility converge.

When we live only by the clock, we flatten the richness of this field. We forget that time can ripen. That some moments ask to be waited for.

Some hours can contain lifetimes, while others drift by hollow.

The future is like a field of pollen, suspended in the air — all potential, waiting for the right breath, the right stillness, to begin its descent into form.

becoming

Becoming is often confused with progress — with achievement, success, and growth that can be charted and measured.

But not all movement is forward. And not all growth is visible.

In nature, transformation is rarely linear.

…

The caterpillar does not “upgrade” into a butterfly — it dissolves.

The seed doesn’t stretch into a tree — it ruptures inside the soil into a new form.

The river doesn’t move forward — it meanders, responding to terrain and deepening over time.

…

Some becoming feels like momentum. Other becoming feels like waiting. Sometimes you change by leaping. Other times by stopping.

The world tells us to strive. To optimize. To upgrade. But the deeper movement of becoming often comes from stillness rather than speed. From attention rather than ambition.

The process isn’t always gentle. There are thresholds that must be crossed.

…

You are not a fixed identity climbing a ladder.

You are a living system, in dialogue with time, memory, instinct, breath, and world.

What you become is shaped not just by effort, but by how deeply you are willing to listen.

future

We often talk about the future like it’s a destination waiting for us to arrive.

But the future isn’t fixed. It’s participatory.

We shape it with attention, with intention, and with presence.

When we pay attention — real, sustained, generous attention — things change. New paths appear. Patterns shift.

Possibility gathers at the edges of perception.

You don’t have to know what the future holds.

You don’t have to force it to arrive faster.

You only have to become the kind of presence it would want to reveal itself to.

Open to what is already forming in the quiet.

Further reading -

Compost and Stardust

What We Build, Even In The Dark

The Anti-Serenity Prayer