We went to Old Sturbridge Village yesterday, a brutally cold Sunday when literally the only people there were people involved with the place. It was, nonetheless, easy to spend almost six hours there. But, perhaps, on reflection it would be better to simply say: this was my day. Why should we reflexively try to account for every minute?*

I think we’ve lost something along the way, maybe simply how to judge the use of our time. We watched, for a fair bit of time, the process of butchering a hog. Cutting down that half was clearly going to be that day’s work, the entire process was going to take up the better part of a week. But perhaps, that should not be how it is measured. The person spinning wool had a good take on it. People didn’t quantify their work by ‘x hours on project y’ but rather ‘today I did my day’s spinning, or I spun x yards’ . There is an interesting, profound, difference there. I’m not sure, quite, what to make of it, except that it is worth thinking about.

*I’m Not advocating staring vacantly at the wall, but more that time spent is maybe not the best way to measure certain things..