It lives less in the present
Than in the future always,
And less in both together
Than in the past. The present
Is too much for the senses,
Too crowding, too confusing-
Too present to imagine."
-From Carpe Diem, by Robert Frost
"Mom," said my daughter, looking up from her book report, "what do you call this time?" My head came up from email and I felt the blank look on my face.
"Homework time? Snack time?" She shook her head, frustrated by my glaring lack of intelligence.
"No, mom. Like the time before was the olden days, and Christmas is in the future and this time is the . . .what?" Comprehension dawned.
"Oh, you mean the present. The time that we are living in right now is called the present."
She nodded, satisfied, and went on to finish her book report while I mused over the fact that she had words for life both before and after the now, but not for the moment she was living.
I often make the same mistake by looking toward the nebulous "future" as the promised land where children have become magically self-sufficient, leaving me with free time in which to write the Great American Novel or volunteer for a wonderful peace and justice effort with my husband (or just take a nap). The past beckons also, as consciousness has edited the angst and trauma from those scenes.
Why is the present so crowded, so confusing, so difficult to imagine? Certainly our minds are bombarded by more images than existed when Frost wrote his lines, yet the busy-ness of our lives only clouds my real problem; accepting both the joy and pain, the delight and frustration of the moments that dot our lives like pearls on a chain. Even recognizing the value of the present (a "gift" by any other name) does not make it easy for me to embrace the flood of emotion that can overtake me when I am fully cognizant, fully aware.
Great, gulping sobs and mascara tracks don't play well in public, no matter how accepting the audience. I can overflow with emotion at any given poignant song, at any family reunion or documentary over justice issues. The tendency is to stifle the outward signs of emotion and to do that one must stifle the inner turmoil - swallow it down and present a bland front. Yet to stifle our empathy and compassion, to shrink back even from tears of joy, robs us of the ability to fully participate in our own lives.
When my book report - writing daughter was born I was both deeply joyful and traumatized. At my six-week appointment I asked my midwife why images from her birth refused to leave me, why I was stuck in an emotional well. Bless her, she did not blame my emotions on hormones or sleep deprivation. She said simply, "you were at the border of life and death." Sensing that border, feeling the precarious nature of existence, sets us free to appreciate life and live deeply. Pain and joy seem to be in a perpetual do-si-do with all of us, though I have been most fortunate to have partnered primarily with joy, or her close cousin, happiness, thus far.
Others live with a terrible burden in the now. Dear friends face the serious illness of a child, the death of a close friend, the pain of a relationship in transition. To me these situations hint at pain almost beyond bearing. I hear from them, though, that the pain is cleaner, is bittersweet for facing it immediately and for being grateful for life's lessons. Friends, I regard you with awe, deep respect and love. Thank you for sharing your wisdom. My thoughts and prayers are with you in your 'now'.
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