I’d be a poor sniper. For one, I’m not great at following orders. I’ve yet to wear a uniform I didn’t find suffocating. But, more importantly, I have the patience of an agitated toddler. I get bored waiting for my shower to get warm in the mornings.
A sniper, though, is excellent at waiting. They must sit for hours in one spot, waiting for a single moment. Long hours passing in single-sighted fixation for that split second of lethal agency.
In World War II, Lyudmila Pavlichenko — “Lady Death” — was the sniper’s sniper. Pavlichenko was a “counter-sniper,” and she had the even harder job of outwaiting others just like her. It’s thought that she killed more than 30 other snipers. In one duel, she reportedly had to lie in wait for three days without food, water, or sleep.
Snipers embody what the ancient Greeks called kairos. Kairos means “the right moment.” It’s the opportune time. And so much of life hinges on recognising when the time has come. It’s when you decide it’s time to leave the party, or when the beat kicks in on your favorite song. It’s the question you ask your partner at 11:33 p.m. on a Friday, and the moment a sniper squeezes a trigger.
Hours, days, and years sweep by, but kairos is the wisely chosen now. To master kairos is to master so much of life. Here’s how.
Chronos and kairos
In the ancient world, the Greeks had two words to describe time: chronos and kairos. Chronos is the ticking of the clock; it’s the forward, zombie steps of just getting on with life. So much just swooshes past in the background. It flows.
Kairos, though, is a single moment that comes barging in and demands attention. It stops the clocks. Imagine you are at the fifth hole of your local minigolf course. You stand, holding your rusty putter, and watch the swinging arms of the windmill block the way. Round, and round, and round. This is chronos — time, going on. You take a breath, draw back your arm, and whack. This is the time to hit the ball. This is the single, unique moment to avoid the spinning blades. That moment is kairos.
Minigolf is a skill. You can become better at it by spending a lot of time around miniature windmills and subterranean tunnel complexes. And the more you practice, the better you get at kairos. You learn to time your shot to avoid the blades. So, too, with big decisions. The more we learn about the world and the wiser we become in dealing with other people, the better we get at knowing when we should do something.
According to Aristotle, almost all virtues are defined by kairos. Virtue means knowing both when to do something — and when not to. A good teacher knows when to be critical and when to praise. If a child asks a parent for help, a good parent knows when to say, “No, no, you can do it yourself,” and when to say, “No worries, I’ve got you.”
Kairos is knowing when to hold ’em, when to fold ’em.
Three ways to kairos
Grab him by the hair: The Greeks imagined kairos as a god, young, fast, but bald at the back of his head. He had one long lock of hair at the front, which meant you could grab him as he approached, but never once he’d passed. You have to be facing the right way.
In practice, this means preparation. The sniper doesn’t just wait around under a parasol with a good book. She studies the terrain, learns the weather patterns, and memorises people’s rhythms. So, we need to learn to face the right way and learn to see the patterns where they are.
Remember when the coffee shop puts out the freshest cinnamon buns, and what time of day is best for a dog walk. Take stock of how your partner feels as they walk through the door and notice when your son or daughter goes silent. Learn the rhythms of your world.
Push chronos aside: We are a culture drowning in chronos tools. Calendars, time-blocks, Pomodoro timers, and screen-time reports are all designed to help us squeeze more from the clock. And so, we wake up and go about our lives to the autocratic beat of a schedule. Breakfast at 7:35 a.m., in the shower by 8 a.m., just in time to make the 8:43 a.m. train.
Kairos is the white rabbit that pops up onto the train station platform with a cheeky twitch of its ears. If you want to find out what lies down the rabbit hole, you will need to miss the train.
If we want to take kairos seriously, we have to recognize that the wisest — and most virtuous — thing is often to break the routine. Sometimes bravery doesn’t follow orders. Sometimes wisdom doesn’t obey the rules. Sometimes, you will have to cancel the meeting with Clive.
Learn from regret: The rabbit waits a bit and gets bored. It bounds away back into the bushes. And, as you sit half-dozing on the morning train, you feel sad and full of regret. Why didn’t you take the chance?
Philosophers differ in their attitude to “regret.” Some, like Nietzsche, argue that regret is a poison that will slowly cripple us. Constantly looking backwards means you never move forward. But we can also learn from regret. Our mistakes, our missed opportunities, are valuable guides so long as we pause to appreciate that feeling of missed opportunity.
In three years, the rabbit will come back. And you’re not going to make the same mistake twice.
This article Kairos: The ancient Greek art of knowing when to act is featured on Big Think.