When: The Scientific Secrets of Perfect Timing

by Daniel H. Pink

“Participants who knew they were eating the final chocolate of a taste test enjoyed it more, preferred it to other chocolates, and rated the overall experience as more enjoyable than other participants who thought they were just eating one more chocolate in a series.”31

The researchers found that at the core of meaningful endings is one of the most complex emotions humans experience: poignancy, a mix of happiness and sadness.

For graduates and everyone else, the most powerful endings deliver poignancy because poignancy delivers significance. One reason we overlook poignancy is that it operates by an upside-down form of emotional physics. Adding a small component of sadness to an otherwise happy moment elevates that moment rather than diminishes it. “Poignancy,” the researchers write, “seems to be particular to the experience of endings.” The best endings don’t leave us happy. Instead, they produce something richer—a rush of unexpected insight, a fleeting moment of transcendence, the possibility that by discarding what we wanted we’ve gotten what we need.

In literature, opening lines bear a mighty burden. They must hook the reader and lure her into the book. That’s why opening lines are heavily scrutinized and long remembered.

The final words of a work are just as important and deserve comparable reverence. Last lines can elevate and encode—by encapsulating a theme, resolving a question, leaving the story lingering in the reader’s head.

“going out with a bang, going on the hot air balloon or whatever on the last day of the trip, could . . . be a good strategy for maximizing reminiscence.”

The breakthrough that most enabled us to do these things came in the late 1500s, when Galileo Galilei was a nineteen-year-old medical student at the University of Pisa. Inspired by a swinging chandelier, Galileo conducted a few makeshift experiments on pendulums. He discovered that what most affected a pendulum’s motion was the length of its string—and that for any given length of string a pendulum always took the same amount of time to make one full swing. That periodicity, he concluded, made pendulums ideal timekeepers. Galileo’s insight led to the invention of pendulum clocks a few decades later. And pendulum clocks, in turn, produced something that we don’t realize is a relatively new concept: “the time.”

Indeed, the evidence shows that groups generally attune to the pacing preferences of their highest-status members.7 However, status and stature are not always one.

Competitive rowing is one of the only racing sports where the athletes have their backs to the finish line. Only one teammate faces forward.

The boat can’t move at its fastest pace without the eight rowers exquisitely synchronized with one another. But they can’t synch effectively without Barber. Their speed depends on someone who never touches an oar, just as the Congressional Chorus’s sound hinges on Simmons, who never sings a note. For group timing, the boss is above, apart, and essential.

But in one dimension, they have no leeway at all: time. Indian business culture typically schedules lunch between 1 p.m. and 2 p.m. That means the dabbawalas must make all their deliveries by 12:45 p.m. And that means Adhav’s team must board the 10:51 a.m. train from the Vile Parle station. Miss that train and the entire schedule crumbles. For the walas, the railway schedule is the boss—the external standard that sets the rhythm, pace, and tempo of their work, the force that imposes discipline on what could otherwise be chaos. It is the unassailable despot, the czarist zeitgeber whose authority is unquestioned and whose rulings are final—an inanimate coxswain or chorus master. So on this Monday, as on all days, the dabbawalas arrive on the platform with several minutes to spare. As the overhead clock approaches 10:45, they all gather their bags, and before the train has even fully stopped, they clamber into its luggage compartment to ride into South Mumbai.

Synchronizing makes us feel good—and feeling good helps a group’s wheels turn more smoothly. Coordinating with others also makes us do good—and doing good enhances synchronization.

SEVEN WAYS TO FIND YOUR OWN “SYNCHER’S HIGH” Coordinating and synchronizing with other people is a powerful way to lift your physical and psychological well-being. If your life doesn’t involve such activities now, here are some ways to find your own syncher’s high: Sing in a chorus. Even if you’ve never been part of a musical group, singing with others will instantly deliver a boost. For choral meetups around the world, go to https://www.meetup.com/topics/choir/. Run together. Running with others offers a trifecta of benefits: exercising, socializing, and synching—all in one. Find a running group through websites like the Road Runners Club of America, http://www.rrca.org/resources/runners/find-a-running-club. Row crew. Few activities require such perfect synchrony as team rowing. It’s also the complete workout: According to some physiologists, a 2,000-meter race burns as many calories as playing back-to-back full-court basketball games. Find a club at http://archive.usrowing.org/domesticrowing/organizations/findaclub. Dance. Ballroom and other types of social dancing are all about synchronizing with another person and coordinating movements with music. Find a class near you at https://www.thumbtack.com/k/ballroom-dance-lessons/near-me/. Join a yoga class. As if you needed to hear one more reason that yoga is good for you, doing it communally may give you a synching high. Flash mob. For something more adventurous than social dancing and more boisterous than yoga, consider a...

I used to believe in ignoring the waves of the day. Now I believe in surfing them. I used to believe that lunch breaks, naps, and taking walks were niceties. Now I believe they’re necessities. I used to believe that the best way to overcome a bad start at work, at school, or at home was to shake it off and move on. Now I believe the better approach is to start again or start together. I used to believe that midpoints didn’t matter—mostly because I was oblivious to their very existence. Now I believe that midpoints illustrate something fundamental about how people behave and how the world works. I used to believe in the value of happy endings. Now I believe that the power of endings rests not in their unmitigated sunniness but in their poignancy and meaning. I used to believe that synchronizing with others was merely a mechanical process. Now I believe that it requires a sense of belonging, rewards a sense of purpose, and reveals a part of our nature. I used to believe that timing was everything. Now I believe that everything is timing.