We always wish we
were in some place, or some moment, other than where we are.
Why do we do
that?
In wishing we
were elsewhere, we’re saying to the Universe that what we have is not good enough. But actually,
what we have and what we are right now is EVERYTHING.
I love this quote from Buddha:
"There are only two days of the year that nothing can be done. One is
called yesterday and the other is called tomorrow. So today is the right day to
love, believe, do and mostly live."
The struggle to
be fully present in the moment, and really making the most of what I have, is a
constant theme in my life. I have a very busy mind that’s often consumed with
worrying about the future or replaying the past. Neither of these is conducive
to being right here, right now. The result is that I am often so immersed in
the coming attractions that I miss the full experience of the feature.
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| Image by @stealtimeback via Instagram |
When I was travelling recently, I realised how much calmer I felt, because I was
completely immersed in what was right in front of my eyes. This ability to tune
out of the pointless (and often damaging) chatter in my mind and into
everything around me is something I want to strengthen in my everyday life.
When I stop to appreciate the awesomnity* of my life, it’s like putting a pin
in the balloon of my worries, and simultaneously lighting a rocket under
my life-satisfaction levels. That’s because I am acutely aware that I have
everything I need right now, and that every element of my life is perfectly
imperfect. This moment is enough.
Recently I saw a
very moving TED talk by poet Robin Morgan and it really highlighted the
beautiful experience of being fully present. Robin, who has Parkinson’s
disease, has written some incredibly powerful poems about the process of
watching her body slow down. One of the pieces that touched me most is called This Dark Hour. I hope you enjoy it as
much as I did.
***
This Dark Hour
Late summer, 4
A.M. The rain slows to a stop, dripping still from the broad
leaves of blue hostas unseen in the garden’s dark. Barefoot, careful
on the slick slate slabs, I need no light, I know the way, stoop by
the mint bed, scoop a fistful of moist earth, then grope for a
chair, spread a shawl, and sit, breathing in the wet green August
air.
This is the
small, still hour before the newspaper lands in the vestibule like a
grenade, the phone shrills, the computer screen blinks and glares awake.
There is this
hour: poem in my head, soil in my hand: unnamable fullness. This
hour, when blood of my blood bone of bone, child grown to manhood now – stranger,
intimate, not distant but apart – lies safe, off dreaming
melodies while love sleeps, safe, in his arms.
To have come to
this place, lived to this moment: immeasurable lightness. The
density of black starts to blur umber. Tentative, a cardinal’s
coloratura, then the mourning dove’s elegy. Sable glimmers toward
grey; objects emerge, trailing shadows; night ages toward
day. The city stirs.
There will be
other dawns, nights, gaudy noons. Likely, I’ll lose my way. There
will be stumbling, falling, cursing the dark. Whatever comes, there
was this hour when nothing mattered, all was unbearably dear.
And when I’m done
with daylights, should those who loved me grieve too long a
while, let them remember that I had this hour – this dark, perfect
hour – and smile.
***
*This is a real word. Don’t you dare google it.
