There is Only Now - an essay

One almost talks to the future. Like there is a conversation to be had about days and nights and bills and calendars yet to come.  But the conversation is put aside because today, the waves are choppy, swept into a froth by a Northeast gale. No room for quiet contemplation as shutters rattle and asphalt tiles fly off the roof like whirly-gigs riding the wind.  

The conversation about tomorrow is put aside today because the day is humid, hot and strips a soul of forward-moving energy. Focus is channeled toward cutting through the lazy, de-energizing  heat. The rising thermometer demands nothing more than things as they are; the What Is of now. The waves rolling to shore, redundant, constant, serve as a perfect reminder of what is, now. What is, a conversation stopper as much as any.  We ruminate on what was, we dwell on what will be, but with the heavy-limbed movement of a pregnant woman on a hot summer’s day, we dance awkwardly with what is. Regardless of what we do or what we think about it, the waves still roll to shore; an enduring object lesson for those who care to listen.

The conversation of what happens next is redirected. There is ice forming on the harbor. Small peaks of Ice on salt water, thick enough to cross with little running steps in winter boots that have steel-tipped toes.  Night out on the frozen harbor is an adrenaline rush. The moaning and cracking of the ice as it shifts keeps all senses alert for clear and present danger. The past and the future are as invisible as the crystalline cold, winter air. All focus is attuned to the lubdub, lubdub of a beating heart and the heavy breathing behind a scarf-wrapped face. Keep feet steady, keep safe out on the unforgiving and unpredictable ice.

The conversation about the future has no place on this rainy day. The skies are grey and wrung with water. The Sound is a trampoline for raindrops; they bounce off the taut water surface of the ocean rising, then falling. The waves, kicked up by the wind, crash louder than usual, drowning thoughts of yesterdays and laters, leaving only a drive to stay dry, stay warm, nestle into warm bed covers with a book, electricity to read said book, and a cup of tea.  Nothing else is matters.

The conversation about tomorrow should be the road less taken. Instead, we feel compelled to try to catch a glimpse of the road ahead.  The gypsy’s promise to read the tarot cards, reveal what is around the corner, is infinitely more seductive than staying firmly planted in now.
Now is where the Black Dog sails alongside the Alabama against a Vineyard sky so blue that a heart might be forever seared by its perfection. Now is where we can go to minimize all suffering and ameliorate all sorrow. Take the day, parse its into seconds,therein is only now.
there......there......there......there -
It’s when we insist on stringing them together in a continuum of past-present-future that 
we are apt to visit sorrow and loss.  In the stand-alone seconds, there (a red-winged blackbird takes flight across the autumn grass).....there (the chimes ring out a 100-year old hymn from the Methodist Campgrounds bell-tower).....there (the fragrant lavender blossoms leave their fragrant calling card wafting through the air an Indian summer day).....there ( the perfect orb of red sun breaks through the night bringing with it a new dawn.  

....there....
is only now. 

One almost talks to the future. Like there is a conversation to be had about days and nights and bills and calendars yet to come.  But the conversation is put aside because today, the waves are choppy, swept into a froth by a Northeast gale. No room for quiet contemplation as shutters rattle and asphalt tiles fly off the roof like whirly-gigs riding the wind.  

The conversation about tomorrow is put aside today because the day is humid, hot and strips a soul of forward-moving energy. Focus is channeled toward cutting through the lazy, de-energizing  heat. The rising thermometer demands nothing more than things as they are; the What Is of now. The waves rolling to shore, redundant, constant, serve as a perfect reminder of what is, now. What is, a conversation stopper as much as any.  We ruminate on what was, we dwell on what will be, but with the heavy-limbed movement of a pregnant woman on a hot summer’s day, we dance awkwardly with what is. Regardless of what we do or what we think about it, the waves still roll to shore; an enduring object lesson for those who care to listen.

The conversation of what happens next is redirected. There is ice forming on the harbor. Small peaks of Ice on salt water, thick enough to cross with little running steps in winter boots that have steel-tipped toes.  Night out on the frozen harbor is an adrenaline rush. The moaning and cracking of the ice as it shifts keeps all senses alert for clear and present danger. The past and the future are as invisible as the crystalline cold, winter air. All focus is attuned to the lubdub, lubdub of a beating heart and the heavy breathing behind a scarf-wrapped face. Keep feet steady, keep safe out on the unforgiving and unpredictable ice.

The conversation about the future has no place on this rainy day. The skies are grey and wrung with water. The Sound is a trampoline for raindrops; they bounce off the taut water surface of the ocean rising, then falling. The waves, kicked up by the wind, crash louder than usual, drowning thoughts of yesterdays and laters, leaving only a drive to stay dry, stay warm, nestle into warm bed covers with a book, electricity to read said book, and a cup of tea.  Nothing else is matters.

The conversation about tomorrow should be the road less taken. Instead, we feel compelled to try to catch a glimpse of the road ahead.  The gypsy’s promise to read the tarot cards, reveal what is around the corner, is infinitely more seductive than staying firmly planted in now.

Now is where the Black Dog sails alongside the Alabama against a Vineyard sky so blue that a heart might be forever seared by its perfection. Now is where we can go to minimize all suffering and ameliorate all sorrow. Take the day, parse its into seconds,therein is only now.

there......there......there......there -

It’s when we insist on stringing them together in a continuum of past-present-future that 

we are apt to visit sorrow and loss.  In the stand-alone seconds, there (a red-winged blackbird takes flight across the autumn grass).....there (the chimes ring out a 100-year old hymn from the Methodist Campgrounds bell-tower).....there (the fragrant lavender blossoms leave their fragrant calling card wafting through the air an Indian summer day).....there ( the perfect orb of red sun breaks through the night bringing with it a new dawn.  

....there....

is only now. 


If you are fearful, you’re living in the future, if you are depressed, you’re living in the past. Byron Katie