Fall back. Spring forward. The expression comes to me each October (now November) and each April, automatically, like the quietly insistent voice I hear in my head when I am about to go out to the theatre and I question my readiness. Got the tickets?

The practice of changing our clocks in the fall and spring has been around officially for about a hundred years although, supposedly, ancient civilizations observed seasonal adjustments in their daily schedules too.

I have come to expect some confusion and a period of adjustment around this bi-annual ritual. I have gone out to meet people an hour earlier than scheduled after the fall time change and have been late to some occasions on certain Sundays in April. Sometimes, I’ll start switching the time on clocks in anticipation of the change only to notice that the timepieces I rely on (in my house or on my car dash), all seem set for different times, and I don’t know which to believe.

And, of course, I will not feel like going to bed at the optimal time for three days after we go back on Standard Time and will feel tired early for two to three days after we go on Daylight Savings Time.

I like the idea of having long, long days in the summer, but I don’t like the idea of losing an hour each April, which is the most immediate consequence of the time change. I realize, of course, that days are not longer or shorter at different times of the year (there’s always 24 hours to a day), but I am susceptible to the illusion.

I always like the fall time change better than the one in April even though the occasion means that I will be driving home from work or early evening errands after sunset.  I like the idea of getting an extra hour.

And when does this mysterious extra hour get folded into the batter of our daily lives? Two o’clock on Sunday morning is when we are supposed to turn our clocks back to 1:00. Really!  Really?

This only adds to the mystery.  I am not usually awake to witness this magical moment. I will just go to sleep on Saturday night, and I have to trust that everyone else moved their clocks back too.

Perhaps I will have nothing special planned for this extra hour, but I consider it a gift nonetheless.

And I guess that’s a little bit of a mystery too; why this extra hour makes me so happy. Sixty minutes is not a very long time, but it seems like a long time. It’s free, uncommitted.  It’s a gift requiring no special arrangements or negotiations. It only happens once a year. It comes to you automatically, without special merit. No strings attached.

When you think about it, any gift of time is no small thing.