While time flies
Yana Northen • 21 August 2025
In the flight of days — to find your inner compass.
Yesterday I was walking through the city after my workout. I had shopping bags in my hands and a list of tasks in my head. Everything was planned: go here, do this, then another thing, and suddenly I found myself thinking: how do others live?
I remembered myself when I was young. Studying at university, a little daughter, endless chores. Back then it seemed to me: “When my child grows up, I will finally have time for everything.” But my child grew up, and there was still no more time.
Today I am a grandmother of two grandchildren, and I still don’t have enough time. I need to cook, clean, work in the garden, complete assignments for my course, sort through the photographs I’ve taken, give attention to my relationships, go for a walk, read a book, and all this in between other things. Where can I find time for everything?
Within myself I realised: you shouldn’t wait for time to appear “someday.” I try to learn to arrange my day so that there is enough not only for duties, but also for joy. I remember literally “crawling” back from the garden, and then spending several days in pain. Now I set a timer: one hour of gardening — and that’s enough. But every day, and with pleasure.
The same goes for everything else. If I stay with one task too long, I begin to hate what I am doing, and it is important for me to switch, to refocus, to keep my zest for life.
I know: thousands of books and manuals have been written on how to organise time. Courses, coaching and advice. But no matter how many there are, responsibility always remains with the person — for how they live their life, for what they spend their days on. For me, this is not about management, but about awareness.
Life does not sit neatly on a shelf together with ready-made recipes from books. It is lived — here and now.
Time does not arrive tomorrow. It leaves — every minute, and only I decide whether I fill this day with fatigue and irritation, or with joy and inspiration.
Honouring my uncle’s memory through art, music, and the wisdom he shared about living life to the fullest.
Exploring how flowers, emotions, and images intersect — one layer of reality over another.
Planting poppies in my garden was my unconscious way of mourning my husband—only recently did I understand their deep, symbolic meaning.
A brief reflection on change, loss, and quiet presence. How one bare tree in a blooming garden became a reminder that everything passes, everything moves — and sometimes, the most important thing we can do is simply be.
A quiet morning. A small mirror. A body, remembered.
In this letter-like reflection, I explore what happens when we pause long enough to truly meet ourselves. Through a series of movements — gaze, touch, presence — I reconnect with my body not as an object, but as a part of me that feels, remembers, and responds.
This is a continuation of the project A Conversation with My Body — where photography and words become a form of healing, presence, and quiet truth.
A quiet meditation on memory, loss, and what remains of us when we’re gone. Through a daughter’s gesture and the few objects left behind — old photographs, a worn belt, and a watch — this story reflects on how life continues in traces, in light, in dust, in love remembered. Accompanied by a symbolic photograph capturing the intimacy of this moment.
A deeply personal letter from the body to the self — an invitation to listen, feel, and reconnect. This message speaks about pain, silence, self-compassion, and the unbreakable bond between mind and body.
A visual reflection on how ordinary objects reveal our emotions and thoughts — a photo collage made over one week.