Time Flies
70 x 100 cm. (27.6" x 39.4")
Available · inquire for pricing · email: robert@nitiredjo.com
The Common Cuckoo is a bird that is often heard, but rarely seen. Its familiar two-note “cuck-oo” song can be heard echoing across forests and woodlands during the spring and early summer. We even built clocks around its call, making the cuckoo a symbol of time itself.
That connection inspired the title of this painting. Time Flies is a phrase we all know. One moment we're young, and before we know it another decade has passed.
I was reminded of that today while paying my funeral insurance. It struck me that I'll be turning fifty this year. There was a time when thoughts like that would have unsettled me. They felt like reminders that the clock was always ticking. Somewhere along the way that changed. The older I get, the more I notice that life isn’t asking us to hold on to time. It’s asking us to be present for it.
When someone we love dies, we're often reminded to live every moment to the fullest, because life is short. There is wisdom in that, but not as an invitation to rush through life collecting experiences before time runs out. Rather, it is an invitation to meet each moment fully. That is where lasting joy, resilience and a deep connection to life are found.
The painting shows a cuckoo flying over a piece of deadwood. Hidden among the grasses lies the quiet reminder of a bird that has already completed its journey.
At first glance, the scene speaks of life and death. But nature tells a different story. Deadwood is never truly dead. It becomes home to mosses, insects and fungi. Slowly it returns to the earth, where it nourishes new life. What looks like an ending is simply another beginning.
Perhaps we are not so different.
Much of our suffering comes from clinging to the idea of who we are. From the moment we’re born, we build an identity from our achievements, our possessions, our memories and our plans. Yet all of these are temporary. Sooner or later, they fall away.
Long before the body dies, we can allow that false sense of self to die. And what remains is something surprisingly peaceful. Not a person with a story to defend, but the simple awareness that has quietly been here all along.
When we're completely present, something else becomes apparent. Time itself begins to lose its grip. There is no rushing toward tomorrow or longing for yesterday. There is only this moment. And somehow, this moment is enough.
The cuckoo continues its flight. Beneath it, the deadwood slowly returns to the earth. Seasons come and go, forms appear and disappear. Life keeps changing, yet what we truly are remains.
"Time flies, yet what we truly are remains."
