Tag Archives: time

Who Are You? A Little Monday Introspection

Sit back and take a few minutes for yourself:

What sort of person did you expect you would be? Have you become that person? In what ways are you different than expected?

Advertisements

The Implication of Now

IMG_1883

 

 

I am fixed on time, on the notion of now being the only moment in which we exist.

Watching the snow fall, I sense motion.  Listening to my bulldog snore, I hear motion. Sitting at my desk, completely still, my body is in incredible motion: cells dying, living, splitting. Synapses firing, ceasing, firing.  Plaques and tangles forming.  Skin flaking, hair falling.  Thoughts racing, forgetting, creating.  Stan Getz vibrating my eardrum, coffee stimulating olfactory senses, blood rushing, mitral valve failing, information gathering, fingers typing, erasing, revising, second-guessing, muscles degenerating, skin oiling, capturing a moment, remembering it differently, creating a fancier moment.

If it’s in the past, did it exist?  Is now a compilation of fictitious nows that form a fictitious past? How divisible is now?  Is it a Planck moment?  A whole universe grew in a Planck moment.  Where was I then?  Was I then?  If I was then, I always am.  The whole universe could fit inside my box then.  I wonder if I want it to fit inside my box now.  What is the implication of filling it?

The Raw Beauty of a Moment

A moment is a specific and significant, yet immeasurable period of time. A moment is distinct in comparison to that which surrounds it. Distinct, unique. Fleeting.

People share moments, wait just a moment, wait for their big moment, things have had their moment. There are moments of force, magnetic moments, moments to remember, Moment skis that are made in the USA from 95% North American materials. Someone will be with you in a moment. There are momentary lapses of judgment. Nikki Minaj wishes that she “could have this moment for life, for life, for life.” You can measure the internal strength of an object to find its bending moment.

There is the moment of truth.

Douglas Kennedy received a four-star Amazon book review for, “The Moment: A Novel.” One nail-biting Ebay bidder sits on the edge of a seat, 12 seconds away from a Precious Moments figurine. This Magic Moment is having a wedding sale you will not want to miss. Fireworks awed Squints and Smalls to the tune of The Drifters’ “This Magic Moment.” There are awkward moments and moments of clarity. For $259 you can stay at The Moment hotel in Hollywood, California.

Take a moment. I will be with you in a moment.

A moment. How do you know when a moment begins and when it ends? When does the present suddenly become the past? At which point does that specific and significant moment appear to be clutched in your hand? And at which point does it slip through your fingers? Is there a static instant, a “NOW?” Can you be aware enough to know it? Is there enough time to know it?

A moment, this moment right now, is incredibly fast, fleeting, gone, tossed into the past. Every sentence, every word, every letter, every breath, suddenly in the past. This one. Now. Right now, and now, and now, and now…

One incredible moment, however impermanent, however skewed by synaptic memory, existed and fleeted into my past. I existed outside of passing time, absorbing that one moment, that one “now.”

With the help of a team of creative, talented, and generous people, I am able to revisit a representation of that moment whenever I choose. It was January 5, 2012, a day at the beach depicted in the photo, the day I filled the box. I felt like Squints and Smalls, when nothing else existed but the raw beauty of a single moment, one I will share with you in the future.

 

20131104-102006.jpg

Gratitude, Self-Doubt, and a Dog

A question was posed by blogger “Clarabelle” this morning about gratitude. What does gratitude feel like to me? While you toss that around in your own head for a few minutes, or visit her blog right here: Clarabelle, I will explain how I arrived at my answer.

My mission was to write an incredibly fabulous, poetic, and unique piece that would fetch large audiences who would all be in agreement about my brilliance. It would make people wonder how, or if, a mere human could create such perfection. They would argue that the author must be a team, as even the greatest wordsmith could never encompass such complexity in plain language. It would read as if it had always been written, always existed, and was just waiting for the right moment to be unveiled.

I sat there, at my desk, in a Mexican poncho, one slipper, drinking the sludgy, chalky bottom of very strong coffee.

While I waited for Brilliance to begin, Self-Doubt stopped by with breaking news. Self-Doubt couldn’t wait another moment to tell me that trying to fill a box for twenty years is just stupid, writing about it in a blog is even stupider, that I am my only audience, and that an illiterate child is more skillful at written language than I.

Whomp, whomp.

I closed my laptop. I replaced my slipper with two walking shoes, the Mexican blanket with a jacket, and filled my cup with coffee and cream. I set out for a walk, just me and my dog. I thought about Clarabelle’s question of gratitude. I thought about the beautiful red autumn leaves, the salty smell of ocean air, how it makes my hair feel, how Amy Hempel’s writing is so perfect and precise. I thought how truly happy my dog was to sniff the fallen leaves as he looked up at me with admiration and a wagging tail. I stood still, waves crashed, clouds slung low, a stranger smiled at my happy dog. I was so incredibly thankful for that moment.

Although I am not a seasoned professional writer, and many a novice is far more masterful than me, no one before me has ever created this combination of words. No one before me has experienced the beauty of the moment which inspired them. It is beautiful in and of itself.

Clarabelle, I thank you.

20131101-162409.jpg

Empty Space and the Problem with Permanence

20131029-231754.jpg

The problem with permanence is that if I were to secure the most precious thing inside the box and wrap it tightly forever, could it stay precious and will it still matter? Twenty years ago, in that heart-pounding moment, the acquisition of the box was all that mattered. Today, its contents are what matter. That fleeting moment of the heist exists simply as a unique combination of a few million synapses firing in my brain. The fleeting nature of everything exists in exactly the same way.

If I didn’t own this box, the tiny space it envelopes wouldn’t matter. Tiny spaces exist everywhere, without a need to fill them, so why is this space so important to permanently fill? Perhaps because the container’s sides, top, and bottom give the empty space a specific beginning and end, a border that defines where it is and where it is not. That in itself makes it special. Perhaps it shouldn’t be filled at all.

Empty space is incredibly important: empty space between spoken words can be an uncomfortable silence, a gentle poetic pause to emphasize meaning, or a moment to silently create the perfect combination of words. The unadorned empty space above a sofa can be boring and drab, or a space to rest your eyes from spaces filled with clutter.

Empty space: a silent bump that forces you to slow down and think of what isn’t, what could be, and what is; what’s missing, its potential, and appreciation.