A Curious Thing

Another beautiful morning, though this one, unlike yesterday, is in shades of gray, not yet decided whether it will rain again as it appears to have overnight.

It is a curious thing, our lives. We create so much of our own problems and troubles, and yet on a morning like this, in a quiet moment such as this one, I wonder what was so important about everything I had made such a fuss about.

Everything we strive so hard for, things worth sacrificing precious hours, days, months and even years for; willing, too willing to pay the cost of hatred, bitterness, fear, jealously and grief left to tend itself — never a pretty sight — was any of it worth giving up one moment of awareness born out of a truly present moment?

None of the things that had consumed me in the past with their great importance seem to matter to me now. Even the pressing things in the general stream of time I call my present life dim around the edges and lose their opacity in the light, this brilliant illumination that is this particular present moment.

Oh, how impoverished I am when I miss it!

Without the wall of urgency my pressing needs have nothing to lean against and fall flat on their faces. And for as long or as little as I stay in this place, I am free.

Perhaps it’s impractical to stay in this place, perhaps we are not meant to, but it is imperative to come. And it occurs to me that perhaps some of us have truly never lived — not because of all the things we’ve never done, but because of all the time we’ve never let ourselves be.

If that is true, then I must be very, very young.

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