Third Times: The Missing Element in Our Third Places

Going beyond Work and Liesure

I sit in my car outside Sunflower House, thumb hovering over my phone screen.

Three work emails demand answers. A client project teeters on the brink. For five years, I've volunteered at this non-profit for adults with Downs Syndrome, and normally, walking through these doors fills me with purpose. But today, as arts and crafts await inside, I'm caught in the gravitational pull of my professional life. I check my phone and my heart sinks.

As I sit suspended between these two worlds, I realize I'm experiencing more than just a scheduling conflict. This is a collision of what I've come to think of as 'times.'

You might have heard of the concept of "third places" – those spaces that aren't home or work, where community happens. The coffee shop where everyone knows your name. The community center. The local library. But what I'm wrestling with feels like something different: the need for "third times" – moments that aren't about survival or escape, but about genuine connection and giving.

There's work time, where productivity reigns supreme. There's leisure time, often spent in passive consumption or escapism. But what I'm craving, what I'm struggling to hold onto here at Sunflower House, is something different. A 'third time' – moments that exist outside the binary of production and consumption. Times when we can be present without pressure, generous without sacrifice. And I'm beginning to suspect that these elusive 'third times' might be exactly what we're all desperately needing in our increasingly fragmented lives.

Our relationship with time hasn't always been this fractured. Before the industrial revolution, time was marked by natural rhythms - sunrise, sunset, seasons. Communities followed the agricultural calendar, resting during winter's dormancy and gathering for harvest festivals in autumn. The day's pace ebbed and flowed with the sun's journey across the sky, while the moon's phases guided celebrations and plantings. Even daily work had its natural pauses - shepherds would gather while their flocks grazed or farmers would share stories during midday heat.

Over time, the factory whistle replaced the rooster's crow, and time became something to be measured, maximized, and monetized. The punch card gave way to the digital calendar, and now our phones ping us incessantly with reminders of all we're not doing.

In my home country, the Philippines, we're witnessing a profound shift in how we value and experience time. Metro Manila workers can spend up to 4 hours daily just commuting, and our traditional bayanihan spirit - our system of communal unity and cooperation - is rapidly declining in urban areas, particularly among young professionals caught in the corporate grind. Most telling: Filipinos spend nearly 10 hours per day on social media (highest in the world for 8 consecutive years), yet report feeling more disconnected from real community than ever.

The erosion of these "third times" carries costs far beyond individual burnout. When we lose these moments of genuine connection and contribution, we lose something fundamental to our social fabric.

And it's not just about individual well-being. Political scientists have noted a direct correlation between declining community engagement and the rise of political polarization. When we lose spaces and times for genuine connection across differences, we lose our ability to see humanity in those who think differently from us.

The irony is that technology promised to make us more connected than ever. Yet studies show that the average American has fewer close friends today than they did thirty years ago. We're more "connected" but less connected - like ships passing in a digital night, screens glowing but no one truly seeing each other.

The Existential Hamster Wheel

My experience at Sunflower House isn't isolated.

It's a symptom of a larger phenomenon that's reshaping how we interact with the world and each other. As I reflect on my struggle to be present in that moment of volunteering, I realize it's part of a broader pattern in my life – and likely in the lives of many others. We're caught in what I've come to think of as a spiritual treadmill, constantly running just to stay in place.

This relentless pace affects not just our work lives, but seeps into every aspect of our existence, including our ability to engage in those 'third times' we so desperately need.

Here's the paradox: I'm not destitute. Bills? Paid. Yet a relentless sensation haunts me – if I'm not advancing, I'm regressing. It’s an existential hamster wheel. Run, run, run – just to remain stationary.

What's at the root of that feeling? Is it just economic anxiety? Or is there something deeper – a kind of existential FOMO that's been weaponized against our better angels? Even in moments of rest or leisure, there's a nagging sense that I should be doing more, achieving more, being more.

This hamster wheel isn't just about work. It seeps into every aspect of life. Hobbies become side hustles. Friendships are measured by their networking potential. Even acts of kindness, like my time at Sunflower House, get weighed against their "opportunity cost."

And the truly insidious part?

I'm not sure I know how to get off this treadmill anymore. The fear of what might happen if I slow down has become more powerful than the exhaustion of constant motion.

Third Times vs. Third Places

"But wait," you might say, "isn't this just Ray Oldenburg's concept of third places repackaged? After all, don't we need physical spaces to create these moments?"

Of course it is.

Third places provide the stage, but third times are about the performance itself. You can be physically present in a third place while being mentally absent – something I know all too well from my distracted hours at Sunflower House. Conversely, you can create a third time moment without a designated third place – like when neighbors spontaneously gather after a storm to help clear fallen trees.

What's more, many of our traditional third places have been colonized by the very forces they were meant to resist. Coffee shops have become remote offices. Community centers host corporate team-building exercises. Libraries are sometimes more like book fulfillment centers than spaces for lingering and connection.

The crisis isn't just about preserving physical spaces – it's about protecting and cultivating a certain quality of time and attention within them.

Maybe what we need isn't just third places, but third times – moments that exist outside the binary of production and consumption. Times when we can be present without pressure, generous without sacrifice.

I don't have clean answers here.

But I know that as I sit in my car, checking those emails, something essential is being lost.

Not just in my life, but in all of our lives. The question isn't whether we can afford to volunteer anymore. The question is: "As we optimize our schedules down to the minute, what sacred things are we sacrificing at the altar of efficiency?”

The next time I walk through the doors of Sunflower House, I’ll make a conscious decision. I silence my phone. I take a deep breath. And for the next two hours, I immerse myself fully in the joy of creating art alongside Sarah and the others.

Third times aren't luxuries we can't afford - they're necessities we can't afford to lose.

As our world accelerates and fragments, these moments of genuine presence and connection become not just meaningful, but vital. They're the spaces where we remember who we are beyond our productivity, beyond our consumption.

The revolution we need isn't about creating new places or finding more time - it's about protecting and cultivating these precious moments where we can simply be human together. In a world increasingly divided between production and escape, third times offer something radical: the chance to be fully present, fully alive, fully ourselves.