Since moving to New York a few years ago, my mornings have become about keeping time or being on time. I wake up at 6:00am, go to the gym at 7:00am, get back home at 8:00am, shower at 8:10am, drink a cup of coffee 8:30am, get ready at 8:45am, and leave my apartment at 9:15am. I walk the same route each morning turning left once I am out the house, then a slight right at the end of the road and then left again where I finally arrive at the subway station ten minutes later. These walks to the subway station are mindless, a kind of muscle memory that moves my body from my apartment to the train. Even on the days when I am running late, my body drives into autopilot picking up my walking pace so I can make it on time. Yet, each year around spring, my time keeping is disrupted by what often seems like a sudden appearance of a rosebush in full bloom. Suddenly time slows down as I stop to look at these roses, to witness this rebirth. Without fail, I always attempt to take a picture of these roses – an attempt that’s filled up my camera roll over the years – and then I stare at them in awe for a few minutes before moving on. As I walk away, I wonder how I don’t remember anything about my walks to the station or even this street that I’ve walked down for the past months up until this moment when the earth feels like it’s coming back to life again.