Be Here. Now.

I was downstairs, in our basement of doom, doing laundry just now, but not hating it or feeling annoyed at how much laundry there always is to do. Just being happy that I have clothes to wash, and people who I love who wear clothes. 

And it struck me, again, how much of my life, how all of my life, really, is right here, in this moment. And now, I'm upstairs, typing on my netbook while my child lies happily next to me, watching Toy Story 2. He's home sick, which is very unusual. I'm just letting his mild fever run its course, because that's what one does, while watching Pixar and snuggling.


It struck me again, today*, because of course, that "be here now" in yesterday's poem (and in my daily life, oh, I bring myself back to the present moment about 20 million times a day because I'm very cerebral and prone to ruminating) is about just this: laundry, sick days. And choosing to be grateful in this moment, instead of annoyed. Because being in this moment is exceedingly grateful-making, the softness of Remy's hair while he snuggles next to me, the length of his eyelashes, the beauty of my tea mug. And oh, his hot, pink cheeks. And how lucky we are this is just a cold, that we have a parent who can stay home with Remy when he is sick, that we have electricity and water and...


Sometimes it feels like bragging when I am in this state of mind. (Because I am prone to depression, and if you've ever been depressed, you know that when you're in that state of mind, laundry feels like the worst thing that ever happened to you, a sick day would be a monumentally horrific event and all of life just piles up on top of each thing to produce extreme numbness. Been there. Felt that. Don't feel it now, knock on wood.)

But this isn't bragging. This is my life. I'm here for the shitty parts, too, the moment when the neurologist walked in the room (I remember his shoes) and got right to the point, telling us he, "hadn't expected to find anything, but here, look at this." and showed us the MRI scan of Remy's brain. 


And afterwords, we went to bagels, Remy and M and I, and the view from the shop was the Pensacola Bay and I just remember looking at the water and trying to wrap my brain around that image of Remy's brain, of his diagnosis, of the possibility, however remote, that he could have another stroke and be gone, just like that. And the waves and the sky and the world was just beautiful. Still. Regardless of what was happening to me, to my family. The world was just beautiful.


And that's just one series of moments from my life. There are other, much worse moments. Like the gun, pointed at my head (that's also in yesterday's poem, and a true story: I was held hostage at work, 16 years ago and one of the robbers was sentenced to 30 years for shooting at the police. The other is presumed dead, shot during a subsequent robbery attempt, a year later. I wish them both peace, truly, and happiness. I wish they'd never been introduced to a world where it's ok to point guns at strangers, but they were and my intersection with that world was random and I'm glad I survived.). 



And there's the great moments. The wonderful, "Wow this is my life" moments that I cherish deeply and want to remember forever. The first time I saw M and that *ping* that we both felt. The moment when Remy arrived, just after (hours of pain) and the wow of meeting him.


All our lives are like this, though, a series of moments (good or bad, thinking makes them so), when we are truly present (or not so very much so). This what makes a life. Where each person walks, stands, sits, and in what moment, are unique. What words they say, they hear, they feel or think. 


This moment. This is the moment you have, moment after moment (if you're lucky, or rather, right up to the last moment when your luck runs out). 
______

* And today is Ram Dass' birthday, who wrote the awesome book, Remember, Be Here Now.