Our understanding of time is interdependent with our relationship to space. In other words: our interactions with the physical terrain of our individual lives—past, present, and future; natural, constructed, something in between—impacts the way we think about time.

 

The idea that the arrival of spring in the Northern Hemisphere could be marked by some on the 1st February—known as St Brigid’s Day in Ireland, or Imbolic on the Pagan calendar—may seem odd to someone who has not lived at those latitudes before. And yet, to first observe how the lengthening of days is relievingly noticeable at this mid-point between equinoxes is one way of changing a person’s approach to time, in that moment and for years to come. 

 

Equally, the summer days of childhood are often recalled with a nostalgic sense of endlessness, the feeling that no day could possibly be longer than those spent without the routine and structure of school. However, an adult working in the more northern or southern latitudes of the globe may revel differently in the summer months, the evening light offering the fleeting (and yet predictable) opportunity to double the day, to have both work and pleasure.

 

Chronotopes are one tool used in literary analysis to discuss the impact of ‘time-space’ upon characters and narratives, and they also offer a way to interrogate the lived sense of our own time, or indeed these well-remarked-upon extra-ordinary times.

 

Springtime. Cinematic time. Space time. Pandemic time. Zygote time. All ways of making sense of what we experience, on offer in this issue for you.

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- The Editors