The Magical Mystery Tour of DST

Ugh, Daylight Saving Time. That magical mystery time of year when we all lose an hour of sleep and gain an hour of confusion.

Maybe you handle this better, but I stumble around and am out of sync for a few days.

In the six months between Fall Backward and Spring Forward, I forget how to reset my coffee pot, microwave, and the clock in my car. But my iPhone does the springing or falling automatically, so I am grateful for the little things.

If you’re in California, do you remember that we voted to keep the clock the same throughout the year, or did I dream it?

This week may turn even the cheeriest person into a grumpy Gus. We’re all cranky from losing an hour of sleep and feeling out of step with our world. I usually need an extra cup of coffee to perk up (no pun intended).

And didn’t medical professionals say the springtime change has been linked to an increase in cardiac events?

I read a study that DST disrupted sleep and found an increase in hospitalizations for atrial fibrillation in the days following the springtime transition to DST.

The same study cites that more people have problems falling asleep, mood disorders, and fatal car crashes during DST.

Maybe we’re grumpy because we can’t sleep, have heart arrhythmia, or stay up worrying about car crashes.

I hear the case to standardize the time to year-round has made it to the Capitol with the bill The Sunshine Protection Act. I’m not holding my breath.

The American Medical Association put in their dime (because, you know, inflation means it’s not 2 cents anymore):

our internal clock is not as well aligned during daylight saving time. “Light in the morning is very important,” she says. “Restoring permanent, year-round standard time is the best option for our health and well-being,”

Dr. Jennifer Martin

Daylight Saving Time is a weird and confusing time of year. It’s like the universe is playing a cruel joke on us, messing with our sleep schedules and our sense of time.

But at least we can all commiserate together, grumbling and complaining until we finally adjust to the new time. And who knows, maybe by the time we do, it’ll be time to switch back again.

A poem:

The Day After Daylight Savings Time

Blue numbers on my bedside clock
tell I forgot to change the hour.
This sets routines on haywire.
Like a domestic goat staked
to its circle of earth,
I don’t do well untethered.
I have no hunger for early dinner,
become confused by the sound
of children who seem out
too late for a school night.
They’ve found an extra helping
of daylight to romp on new grass
and can’t contain themselves,
strip off jackets, scatter
like a rag of ponies.
Whatever time says,
their joy insists
on springing forward.


Margaret Haase

Take extra care of yourselves this week, and be well.

PS: If you’ve signed up for my monthly newsletter, it will come out on the third Saturday of March instead of the fourth to include news of special promotions and events.


Sunday Share: Storytelling Week

Hopi Storyteller

My newsletter went out yesterday, so I usually do not write a post on the last Sunday of the month, but there are always exceptions.

National Storyteller Week begins today and until February 5, 2023. It’s an annual event to encourage people about the power of sharing stories and to promote storytelling.

I shared stories in my newsletter and encourage you to share stories on your posts this week or tell your children, grandchildren, or friends stories about yourself or your ancestors.

In the last two newsletters, I’ve held randomized drawings and given away two advance reader’s copies (ARCs) of The Garden of Second Chances, debuting June 6, 2023.

Here’s a poem about guess what? Storytelling:

The Storyteller Gets Her Name

My dad used to call me Eagle Eyes. I was the one to find eagles, owls, blue jays
on a dark day. He called me so until my brother was born infant and grew to boy.

Having heard my name, as younger siblings often do,
he wanted to be called Eagle Eyes too. He studied the birds’ flight, kept his

eyes to the skies for hours, and soon he knew their long names
and could correct me. Except, at sixteen, I never liked to be corrected.

But my brother showed me the work, and I had to learn to give.
Give him all I could as my elders did for me.

So I tugged on my heart to let go, as I knew he had earned Eagle Eyes
more than I ever could. And what I found instead was new room, for a new name.

I am Siwa’köl, storyteller.

And my brother, he is Eagle Eyes.

I tell his tales and mine so someday when we join the elders,
my stories may be told and his birds can take to the sky.

But for now, I will share with you my story so that you can know who you are—
and maybe you are Siwa’köl too.
By Ari Tison, Storyteller.

Do you share your ancestral stories? Link to one in the comments and share.

Thanks for reading. Be well, and have a good week.