Skip to main content
Imagine...
A half clothed three-year old, running ahead of you on the trail, his muddy feet and bare legs kicking behind him in the characteristic gait of the very young. He is chasing, with headlong abandon, after an imaginary friend named, "Now". Yep, "Now". All the while, he is yelling after his speedy friend, saying, "Get back here Now. Hey Now, Now, Now! Mommy, Now isn't listening to me!" "NOW get back here!". As far as I could discern, 'Now' was not a friend to stroll alongside, or chat mildly with about the weather or the quickening of spring all around. Rather, to simply keep Now in sight, one needed to maintain a dead run. Sadly, Now eventually disappeared over the horizon and was forgotten.
Well, the message wasn't lost. I am forever chasing after something.  In a hurry, I race after the time-piece wielding rabbit who dives as readily into his rabbit hole, out of sight. I have been thinking a lot about busyness, what drives it and why it is so invasive. I have been proverbially and literally chasing NOW for sometime, or running away from it. It is a sad state and just as ridiculous as the afore mentioned scenario that confronted me on a recent hike in Golden. Oh children. They manage to teach us the deepest lessons in the most simple of ways.
Labels:

Comments

china cat said…
I love it! I have a similar relationship with Now - always diminishing along the horizon, and I forever in pursuit of its companionship. Unlike Bodhi's friend I am the one running through the hills and my Now has stayed right where I left it - awaiting my return.
April 13, 2010 at 10:01 AM
Wind said…
Wow Now! I have completely forgotten about my friend Now. I steadily send all my love thoughts toward "Tonight when all are asleep". Maybe this isn't the best friend to have.
April 15, 2010 at 9:29 PM
Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

FORGET ABOUT ‘HEALING’

Some days,  you just have to forget  about ‘healing’. You have to stop trying to feel better, trying to overcome your emotional wounds, or trying to be anywhere other than where you are. You have to embrace the day as it is. And you have to give yourself the most sacred permission of all: To shatter.  To break.  To be an ugly mess. To lean into a place of utter humility and powerlessness in yourself. To cry out to the heavens, “I can’t do this!” To admit utter defeat  in the loss of the life  you had imagined. To crumble to the ground, lonely and hopeless and profoundly ruined. To want to die, even. And there, in the darkest places, in the blackness of the underworld, you may begin to rediscover... life.  And learn to love the beginnings. A sacred reboot: A single breath.  The way the sun warms your face. The sound of a tiny bird singing in the tree over there. The raw simplicity of a single moment of human existence. Hell has been transmuted, thr...
Post a Comment
Read more

a story recently shared by a friend

 Once upon a time, there was an island where all the feelings lived: Happiness, Sadness, Knowledge, and all of the others, including Love. One day it was announced to the feelings that island would sink, so all constructed boats and left. Except for Love. Love was the only one who stayed. Love wanted to hold out until the last possible moment. When the island had almost sunk, Love decided to ask for help. Richness was passing by Love in a grand boat. Love said, "Richness, can you take me with you?" Richness answered, "No, I can't. There is a lot of gold and silver in my boat. There is no place here for you." Love decided to ask Vanity who was also passing by in a beautiful vessel. "Vanity, please help me!" "I can't help you, Love. You are all wet and might damage my boat," Vanity answered. Sadness was close by so Love asked, "Sadness, let me go with you." "Oh . . . Love, I am so sad that I need to be by myself...
7 comments
Read more

He is no longer here

Another day has begun.  I have lit my candles and incense.  Sat in silence. Worked up a sweat at the gym.  Eaten breakfast.  Straightened house.  Answered mail and dropped my man off at the airport. It is eight in the morning and the world stirs with wakefulness.  The sun climbs in the sky.  The birds sing.  The squirrels chip and chur in tree branches.  A dog barks.  And I look with dull eyes at the long day ahead, contemplating a single phrase, "My father is dead." What strange words. My father is dead. The man has been leaving for as long as I can remember and yet his death robs the wind from my lungs.  My chest throbs and throat tightens.  He isn't coming back. My mom and dad had slipped out of one another's lives before I'd barely begun mine.  Two weekends a month my brothers and I stood on a saggy porch, bags packed, eager for our hero to arrive in his old blue Ford to pick us up.  We vibrated with hope...
5 comments
Read more