I think a major element of jetlag is psychological. Nobody ever

Behold the words of Sir David Attenborough, who once declared: “I think a major element of jetlag is psychological. Nobody ever tells me what time it is at home.” At first glance, these words may seem but a casual observation of a traveler weary from long flights. Yet beneath their lightness lies a truth profound: the greatest battles are often not fought in the body, but in the mind, and the rhythm of our days is governed as much by thought as by the turning of the earth.

For what is jetlag, if not a tearing apart of the harmony between time and perception? The sun may rise above foreign mountains, and clocks may toll the hours of another land, yet in the heart there lingers the whisper of home: the hour when loved ones wake, when children sleep, when one’s hearth is warm. Attenborough speaks of this hidden psychology, for he knew that the torment is not merely the shifting of hours, but the dissonance of belonging to two worlds at once. To dwell in one land, and yet to think of another—this is the burden of all wanderers.

In ancient days, great messengers bore this same weight. Consider the riders of the Persian Empire, who carried the king’s decrees across continents. They traveled by horse through heat and storm, reaching distant lands swifter than any before them. Yet the true trial was not only in the body, but in the soul. For when they set foot in Babylon, their hearts still remembered Persepolis; when they spoke the words of Darius in Sardis, their minds yet kept the hour of Susa. They too bore the weight of living in two times at once, as if caught between shadows of past and present.

And so Attenborough, traveler of skies, reveals to us a secret known by the ancients: that the body follows the sun, but the mind follows memory. If no one reminds him of the hour of his homeland, he is free, for his spirit does not cling to the lost rhythm of another shore. He becomes present in the now, released from the chains of distant clocks. Herein lies a lesson not of travel alone, but of life itself: much of our suffering is born not of what is, but of what we cling to.

Think, then, of the soldier who returns from war but still hears the drums of battle in his heart. Think of the exile who, though he dwells in a new land, still counts the days by the feasts of his ancestors. These are not burdens of flesh, but burdens of time carried in the soul. To heal, one must sometimes release the hour of yesterday, and embrace the dawn that lies before them.

Therefore, the teaching is clear: do not bind yourself too tightly to the unseen clock of the past. Whether you travel across seas or through the seasons of life, let the present hour be your guide. The psychological chains are heavier than any earthly distance, and freedom is found in surrender to the moment. Just as Attenborough cast off the thought of home’s hour to ease his body, so must we cast off needless memories to ease our spirit.

The lesson is thus: when you journey—whether by flight, by labor, or by the long road of years—set your eyes upon the sun above you, not the shadows behind you. Anchor yourself in the present, lest your heart remain divided. Practical wisdom follows: when you arrive in a new place, eat with its people, rise with its dawn, and sleep beneath its stars. When you enter a new season of life, do not measure it by the time of old, but by the gifts it now brings.

For truly, as the elders have said: the weight of time is not in the turning of the earth, but in the turning of the mind. And so, if you would conquer weariness, whether of travel or of spirit, do not ask, What time is it at home? Ask instead, What hour is it here, where I stand? Thus shall the burden fall away, and your soul walk freely in the light of the present day.