Narrator: During the quiet stillness of the pandemic, author Lia Purpura noticed something unexpected in her Oakland apartment. In a ceramic planter, a tiny, resilient patch of moss had begun to grow. Watching it day after day, she saw not just a plant, but a different kind of time—a time that was porous, patient, and full of potential. This small patch of green stood in stark contrast to the frantic, anxiety-ridden time of human society, a world obsessed with productivity, deadlines, and the constant fear of falling behind. This observation sparked a profound inquiry, leading to the book A Book of Beginnings and Endings. It serves as a guide to understanding the deep roots of our broken relationship with time and explores how we might begin to heal it by shifting from a purely quantitative view to a qualitative one.

Narrator: The modern mantra that "time is money" is not a natural law but a relatively recent invention, designed for control and exploitation. Purpura traces this idea back to the rise of industrial capitalism, where the clock became the ultimate tool for managing labor. No longer tied to the natural rhythms of sunrise and sunset, time was broken down into abstract, interchangeable units—hours, minutes, and seconds—that could be bought, sold, and maximized for profit.

This shift is perfectly captured in Charlie Chaplin’s 1936 film Modern Times. Chaplin’s character, the Tramp, is a factory worker swallowed by the relentless pace of the assembly line. He is not a person but a cog, his every movement dictated by the punishing speed of the machine. When the company president barks the order to "Speed up Section Five," the Tramp is pushed beyond his human limits, a stark illustration of the capitalist desire to squeeze more work out of every second.

This industrial logic persists today, not just in factories but in seemingly advanced workplaces. In 1998, when the Italian National Institute for Nuclear Physics tried to make its researchers clock in and out, scientists from around the world protested. As one director wrote, "Good science can’t be measured by the clock." They understood that creative and intellectual work doesn't fit into the rigid container of the nine-to-five. Yet, this remains a fundamental conflict: the system demands that time be measured and controlled, even when that control stifles the very work it’s meant to enable.

Narrator: The logic of the factory didn't stay in the factory; it seeped into our homes, our minds, and our very sense of self. Purpura argues that the principles of Taylorism—the science of workplace efficiency—were eagerly applied to personal life. In the early 20th century, psychologists like Donald Laird wrote manuals like Increasing Personal Efficiency, teaching people to become their own "time-study man." Readers were encouraged to eliminate wasted movements, optimize their reading speed, and even apply a division of labor to their own thoughts, prioritizing "active" business-oriented thinking over "passive" daydreaming.

This obsession with self-optimization has reached a fever pitch in the 21st century with the rise of "productivity bros." Figures like Craig Ballantyne, who calls himself the "world's most disciplined man," advocate for waking up at 3:57 A.M. to "crush" their goals. This culture promotes a vision of freedom achieved through relentless self-mastery and the creation of passive income. However, it’s a freedom that comes at a cost, turning individuals against themselves in a constant battle for more efficiency, more output, and more control. We have become both the worker and the foreman, forever pushing ourselves to be more productive.

Narrator: A common refrain in the world of self-help is that everyone—from Beyoncé to the person struggling to make ends meet—has the same 24 hours in a day. Purpura dismantles this as a dangerous fiction. The idea that we all have an equal "supply" of time ignores the crucial role of power. Time is not just a quantity; it’s a structuring relation of power.

The book uses the card game "Asshole" (also known as "President") as a brilliant metaphor for this reality. In the game, the winner of each round becomes the "president" and the loser becomes the "asshole." Before the next round, the asshole must give their two best cards to the president, who in turn discards two unwanted cards. The game systematically disadvantages the player at the bottom, making it incredibly difficult for them to win, regardless of their skill. It teaches a harsh lesson: success is often determined not by how well you play your cards, but by the rules of a game that is rigged from the start.

Similarly, in life, our control over our own time is shaped by our position in society. As scholar Sarah Sharma illustrates, a mother rushing to visit her premature baby in the hospital experiences time pressure differently than a businessman who can leisurely order an Uber. Time is not an unstealable, equal resource; for many, it is dictated by the demands, schedules, and power of others.

Narrator: If our work time is controlled and commodified, surely our leisure time is free? Purpura argues that even this space has been colonized by the logic of the market. We now live in an "experience economy," where leisure is no longer about rest but about acquiring memorable, Instagrammable moments.

Travel influencer Lauren Bullen perfectly exemplifies this. During the 2020 lockdowns, she posted photos of herself in a Bali mansion with captions like "All we have is now," selling an image of serene, mindful slowness. But this "slowness" was a product, a carefully curated experience designed to market a lifestyle and tourist destinations. Leisure has become a performance. A 2017 study found that 40% of millennials chose their travel destinations based on "Instagrammability."

Purpura contrasts this with the philosopher Josef Pieper’s definition of leisure. For Pieper, true leisure is not a break from work or a consumable experience. It’s a state of mind—an attitude of non-activity, of contemplative awe and gratitude for the mystery of existence. It’s a space where we can simply be, without the pressure to do, achieve, or perform. This kind of authentic leisure is increasingly rare in a world that demands even our free time be productive and marketable.

Narrator: Challenging the tyranny of the clock requires more than individual life hacks; it requires creating and defending alternative ways of being in time, or "temporal commons." These are often rooted in specific places and collective practices.

The book highlights the story of the Lakota people in the early 20th century. Under the watchful eye of white government agents who had banned their traditional dances, the Lakota found a clever loophole. They realized they could hold their ceremonies on patriotic holidays like the Fourth of July, framing them as celebrations of Americanism. By using the language and symbols of the dominant culture, they carved out a protected space—an "inside"—where their own rhythms and traditions could survive.

This act of resistance shows that imposed temporal orders are never total. In Xinjiang, China, the government has tried to force the Uyghur population to adopt Beijing Time, but many continue to unofficially observe their local time as a quiet act of cultural defiance. These examples reveal that time is not a monolithic force. It’s a social fabric that can be rewoven through collective action, creating pockets of resistance and preserving what the book calls "chronodiversity."

Narrator: The book concludes with a powerful new metaphor for time, one that offers a path away from the zero-sum game of the clock. Purpura recounts visiting an elderly friend who was planting scarlet runner beans. The beans were descended from a batch she’d received twenty years prior. She shared them with friends, who in turn saved the seeds from their own plants and gave them back to her.

In that moment, Purpura realized how deeply the transactional mindset was embedded in her. She had assumed that giving away lettuce leaves meant her friend would have less for herself. But a plant, when tended, keeps growing. This led to an inside joke that became a profound philosophy: "Time is not money. Time is beans."

This means time is not a finite currency to be hoarded. It can be planted, cultivated, and shared. It grows from the past and contains the seeds of the future. It suggests that the best way to have more time is not to save it for yourself, but to give it away, trusting that it will be cared for and returned in a cycle of mutual regard. It’s a radical shift from a model of individual scarcity to one of collective abundance.

Narrator: Ultimately, A Book of Beginnings and Endings reveals that our experience of time is not a given; it is a story we tell ourselves, and that story can be changed. The book’s most vital takeaway is the call to move beyond the linear, extractive time of the clock—the Greek chronos—and embrace the qualitative, opportune, and sacred time of lived experience, what the Greeks called kairos.

The challenge Lia Purpura leaves us with is not simply to manage our time better, but to fundamentally question what time is for. It asks us to stop trying to save time and instead learn to steward times—to cultivate diverse, rich, and just ways of living. It leaves the reader with an inspiring question: What would it look like to start planting time in your own life, instead of just spending it?