Lightness of Being…

I have been taking so many walks outside, enjoying the incredible blessing of being outdoors, warm sunny rays finding their way into ashy crevices of my soul. Spring buds are tentatively peeking from winter’s deathly grays, coloring the landscape with softer hues, a shift so subtle it is easy to miss. I am trying really hard to “be in the moment”, to pay attention to the little details around me, the graceful unfolding of a gorgeous universe slowly stirring from deep slumber.

It is not easy to be that attentive. Spring normally surprises me with a (seeming) sudden burst of flowers, cheerful cacophony of birds and the incredible freshness of virginal greens that rivets my attention momentarily as I am rushing past wondering at how quick and seamless the changing of the seasons are. It’s not easy to be truly attentive to the millions of small excruciating details that entail a rebirth hanging precariously between the edges of majesty and death. Perhaps this is why seasons are repeated endlessly, to gives us many chances to catch some of those slipping lessons.

So I am trying not to just watch but see and register, not to just hear but listen while controlling the impulse to chatter away in my mind. It irritates me when I get into “writer” mode as I am trying to enjoy the simplicity of the moment; when I find myself observing people, nature, and life all the time taking mental notes. I have to stop myself, to get to the point where I can hear my own rhythmic breath nestling comfortably into the sounds of creation, rustling of leaves, swirling of water, and connecting to a deeper silence.

Only then I realize why people flee from aloneness choosing instead to seek the comforts of artificially constructed noises and the madness of disconnection. There is a deep melancholy invoked in the soul in those rare moments of silence. Something about the recognition of how fleeting those very moments are. In the intricate alleyways and shadows of my mind, I have snapshots of other sceneries, other seasons, and other serene moments that linger like faded photographs eliciting only a disquieting sense of deja vu.

Maybe it’s a mark of my age that I am so cognizant of the moments “I can’t seem to keep.” I have clear memories of languid tropical afternoons that seemed to stretch forever. I don’t know when I lost the feeling that time was not just my ally, but something I never had to concern myself with, there was plenty of it wherever it came from. Now I feel time leaning against my soul, breathing against the nape of my neck, making me break down in tears every time I find myself repeating the verses “By the loss of time. Verily humans are in loss…” 

I realize too that with the blessing of age comes the heart wrenching losses we must be able to endure. That I now have to deal with the possibility of saying goodbye to my closest loved ones, to my health, to my own life. Of course too many (much younger) people are already dealing with daily blows of suffering and losses, but it’s also the natural consequence of living a relatively sheltered life to suddenly wake up and realize all the things that we have come to take for granted aren’t really ours to begin with.

I am trying to learn how to be present, conscious, to stay in touch not just in fleeting contact with reality. As I give Sufyan a huge push on the swings sending him flying upwards, I hear the joyous shrieks and newfound delight of another little girl from a distant time experiencing her first real thrill at the playground. We chase the clouds together and play hide and seek; and I am struck by the cyclical nature of my own existence and all the forgotten moments (seems like just yesterday!) that come flooding back. But the texture of the delight in these moments is different, I am happy only by proxy, reliving my childhood banked on borrowed time. My role is also altered, watching him surreptitiously to make sure he is okay and generating enthusiasm just so I can see his eyes spark up and a huge smile light up his face.

Being awake enough to realize even when I am stuck in those intractable mommy-moments that he is growing too fast, and soon he won’t even need me around. I am savoring the times when he runs to me for comfort, when he puts his little head on my bosom, and when he instinctively wails out “mommy.” I am trying to etch the moments into my soul when he falls asleep on my chest, our breathing one, and I close my eyes and can’t begin to outline where I begin and he ends. I realize part of the blessing of age is prying apart this fusion, nurturing his independence, and tasting the heartbreak of waving goodbye to him over and over again.

There is another dimension to being present, that has a way of turning the inward (and most often self pitying) gaze; out to encompass others. To realize there are needs greater than our own, and to have the courage to move towards fulfilling them or at least playing a small part in betterment. I am still struggling in the way of learning how to be selfless and of expanding the restricted perimeter of my circle to embrace more lives. I don’t want to die with the regret of not having loved enough, or worse failing in breaking my soul out of the stifling crust of selfishness.

I stepped out the door at dawn today smelling the distinct promise of summer laced in the dwindling crispness of winter’s air. Spring is barely here and this time I refuse to look over its horizons for what is around the corner. I am slowing down around “this bend my friend, perchance my heart can heal and my soul can mend”*

*(Original quote borrowed and altered from Baghdad Burning’s intro.)