It is as commonplace as dinner, yet elusive as
a fast folding dream, the way in which, as life rolls onward and we leave
behind our 50's, trundling on into our 60's, the quality of the day, in those
hours and minutes, no more resembles what we would have imagined, than a pirate
ship, than an aria in Spain under the eaves of some aged home.
Instead, the
very minutes are something thick with intrigue, with tristesse most certainly
and inevitably, and then, no matter the riot or challenge, a mille fois of
breath, of being, of saturation of the moment far into ourselves. I wonder
sometimes what the words or dance or song would possibly be, to convey this
sense of being here, that is so rich and portends so very much?
Somehow, it
grows each time I can manage to pause from my dithering with concerns and
frustrations , just long enough to let it in.
And then I settle into it, sigh
with the pleasure of its most elusive warmth and content and reverberation all
through the day.
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