Time can be a mysteriously wonderful thing.
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Mix some ingredients, put it in a hot oven and half an hour later there's a cake.
Water a seed, wait a few weeks, and you've got the makings of a plant.
It's also a healer. Time takes you through the stages of grief to a point where you can look back with happy tears instead of sad ones.
Just the changes we can see when it comes to putting on a mask when heading to the shops or to where you can't social distance - six months ago it wouldn't even have crossed our mind to do that.
Now the difference between Monday, when the health advice ramped up and supermarkets and stores really started asking people to consider masking up before coming inside, and the weekend was stark.
That was just a matter of days.
So imagine how thrilling it was for the Griffith North Public School community late last week when they broke open a time capsule planted two decades ago.
Letters. On paper. Photos. Printed ones - no screens or clouds in 2000. Keepsakes from what seems a lifetime ago. Maybe even messages from those no longer with us.
How lucky.
I know there's a parcel in a pod from 2000 waiting for me. I won't get to see it for another five years, but it pops into my mind every now and then.
And while I'm sure I'll forget about it again quite quickly - after all, I've been doing so for about two-thirds of my life already - it's had me musing about how we document our time on earth and how we're constantly adapting.
And who we do that for.
If we were to farewell 2020 - and I'm sure I'm not the only one ready to kiss this year goodbye - with our very own time capsule, just what would you put in it?
Daisy Huntly, acting editor