This moment will never come again
“I can tell you that solitude
Is not all exaltation, inner space
Where the soul breathes and work can be done.
Solitude exposes the nerve,
Raises up ghosts.
The past, never at rest, flows through it.”
― May Sarton
The sun is up in Devon; I'm playing music by the Kronos Quartet who I first heard on Night Tracks, my new favourite show; and (of course) I've got a nice strong cup of coffee on the go which I'm drinking from my favourite mug — one made in Cornwall from the local clay and hand-painted.
All quite perfect.
And in case it's not already obvious — sorry, that's a little tendentious — this moment won't come again.
But it's all so bloody obvious, right!
I can tell you that that sense of wonder, almost delirium, has flooded every emotion this past week, as I reflect on the last few hours with Brian where, in his semi-comatose state, I was stroking his soft, delicate forehead and talking to him:
"It will be okay Dad. Everything will be okay Dad."
I could have stayed away or stayed out of his room but I didn't. It wasn't a case of never being able to live with myself but rather an overwhelming sense that I had to feel the warmth of his body one last time and to reassure him that I'd look after everything as best as I could; and, I'd carry on the awkward-squad tradition that was his trademark, particularly with those people who thought he had straw growing out his mouth because he had a strong Devon accent and came across as a bit of a yokel.
I know it a cliché, namely the uniqueness of the moment, but if only we saw life that way. Instead, we're apt to attack and move through each moment as if we've unlimited time with which to play with and, well, we've been here before and there's nothing remotely unique let alone precious about so much of what we've to deal with.
And I see that in spades. Even now, if I'm not careful, particularly on my walks with Alfie, I'm so lost in doing that I lose contact with the suchness of the moment, and it takes a loud noise or change in terrain for me to wake up to the full glory, the full majesty of the moment. But I hope — I sincerely hope — that, if nothing else, those last few hours with Brian serve as a reminder to slow down, breathe and to drink in the essence of each moment while I'm still here.
While I'm still here...
This feeling state doesn't mean that outwardly we've got to change. Far from it. It's an inner journey where we (at least) alert our inner psyche to the passing of time and remember to enjoy, saviour and bask in the reverence of the moment. I appreciate that that means the good, bad and really crappy parts of our life but if it were otherwise we would, in effect, turn into somnambulists where we walked through the world with a faux smile hoping to avoid the shadow, the dark and the melancholy.
One other thing. Time passes much quicker than you can conceive. Even yesterday as I was sorting out some old filing, I came across correspondence and statements from as early as 1993. WOW, that seems such a long time ago, but then it doesn't. Also, I looked at some old pension predictions where I'd retire at 60. Yes, 60. And to think I'm only seven years away from that date. Where did all those years go?
Anyhow, it's that time again. Me and Alfie doing our thing. Apparently, people are bored with my Insta stories. Tough. I like them and I'll continue to share my daily walks if only because it helps me reflect on all of life — all of it.
Have a lovely day.
Much love, Ju
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