We seem to have a very hard time with living in the present.
Carpe diem.
Memento mori.
Be here now.
Okay, that last one's a song, but probably the most tranquil, tender song I've ever heard, so it's worth a mention.
Point is, we come up with all these phrases, and practices, and meditations, and methods of keeping ourselves awake and in the present moment. What makes it bizarre is that should come most natural. What could be easier than living in the place and time where you are actually living?
But no. We get lost. We wander into the past or the future so much that when we occasionally come back to the present for a breath of air, we're so in awe. We think we really should do it more often. But never do. Why? What makes it so hard? I was thinking about that earlier. Today was a phenomenally perfect day. The sort you don't get all that much, and I kept thinking
Look at this amazing place where you are right now. Isn't the present wonderful?
I did a pretty good job of staying in the present, though of course, as the day progressed, my mind wandered. Until it stumbled on its own feet, and got to thinking about why we can't stay present continuously, why we let previous (regret, mostly) or future plans take up so much of our present.
Some will argue it's because we're thinking creatures, so it's natural to think. To plan. To dream.
I think yes and no. Sure, it's more poetic to claim we can't help thinking all the time, but that's not really true. I don't think much of what takes up our day-to-day neurons should qualify as thinking. Should I have eggs for lunch, or a burger -- that's not really a thought, is it? So maybe all this faffing about our future plans isn't quite so intellectual as we'd like to think.
But then, what?
I think we're scared. Here's why. We're so terrified of one day ceasing to exist that we pretend. That's all our planning for the future and getting lost in the past is. Terror of death. Or rather, it's a way of tricking death. Of tricking time.
It stands to reason that I can't die. I've got plans for tomorrow, and for six months from now. Obviously, I'm not going to die. Who'd fulfill all my plans? Even if they're as banal as going to the grocery store...
The past is equally enticing. By obsessing over happier times, we momentarily trade our present fear for that erstwhile joy. By obsessing over regrets (as is more often the case, I think), we prop ourselves up. I am someone who's just getting over something terrible. Except that terrible thing is gone. It's in the past. I can not tie myself back to the past, and to my younger self, by simply reliving, or obsessing over the facts.
You can not conquer time."
It's a fool's game, but even the wisest of us play it. We're all scared of death, even the ones who think they're not. Because it's not fear of death, but rather fear of the unknown. That's all it is. You're afraid because you don't know what's going to happen, and because it's unfair that you should one day, for no good reason, just stop.
There's nothing shameful about being scared of death, I think. Even if you think there's more, that it's all just a great journey. 'Cause often, the people who are most scared try their hardest to believe in some sort of continuation of the spirit. It's hope, and it's normal. I hope, too. But I don't think that hope needs to negate the fear.
Digressing.
Returning to carpe diem. How do you do it? I'm not sure. But just going off what I said above, maybe you need to stop pretending you're not scared, or ignoring that fear, or putting it in some nicely ornamented box. Maybe admitting to yourself and the world that you're terrified of what comes next is the first step to living in the present moment.
Or maybe you need to find a way to clear your head. 'Cause that's kinda tricky. I say you need to find it 'cause what works for one won't work for the other. But maybe, if you can find a way of silencing all the worries and the plans and the regrets, you can finally achieve that carpe diem state that seems so elusive.
It sounds cute, but it's terrifying. Because you shroud yourself in your happy memories, and your sorrows, and who you were, and who you'll be.
Being just the person you are right now is standing there naked, with your fragile skin exposed to the elements, and the whips, and the fire.
I was gonna say it's scary as Hell.
But, between you and me, I think it's scarier.
