July 7: "In the Moment," Here and Now, Tiny Life Moment

Billy Collins lives . . .

In the Moment

by: Billy Collins

It was a day in June, all lawn and sky,

the kind that gives you no choice

but to unbutton your shirt

and sit outside in a rough wooden chair.

An if a glass of ice tea and a volume

of seventeenth-century poetry

with a dark blue cover are available,

then the picture can hardly be improved.

I remember a fly kept landing on my wrist,

and two black butterflies 

with white and red wing dots

bobbed around my head in the bright air.

I could feel the day offering itself to me,

and I wanted nothing more

than to be in the moment--but which moment?

Not that one, or that one, or that one,

or any of those that were scuttling by

seemed perfectly right for me.

Plus, I was too knotted with with questions

about the past and his tall, evasive sister, the future.

What churchyard held the bones of George Herbert?

Why did John Donne's wife die so young?

And more pressingly,

what could we serve the vegetarian twins

who were coming to dinner that evening?

Who knew that they would bring their own grapes?

And why was the driver of that pickup

flying down the road toward the lone railroad track?

And so the priceless moments of the day

were squandered one by one--

or more likely a thousand at a time--

with quandary and pointless interrogation.

All I wanted was to be a pea of being

inside the green pod of time,

but that was not going to happen today,

I had to admit to myself

as I closed the book on the face

of Thomas Traherne and returned to the house

where I lit a flame under a pot

full of floating brown eggs,

and, while they cooked in their bubbles,

I stared into a small oval mirror near the sink

to see if that crazy glass

had anything special to tell me today.

Living in the here and now is a good way of being.  If you get stuck in the past, you will spend your life grieving for what or whom you've lost.  If you live in the future, your existence is defined by fear, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

The present it a different thing.  By relishing each moment as it comes your way, all those pesky regrets (from the past) and worries (about the future) melt away like an ice cream cake on a July afternoon.  What is left is gratitude for what is in front your face.  People you love.  Music you dig.  Food you crave.  And laughter and laughter and laughter.

My here and now today consisted of a birthday party for my nephew who just turned 13 years old.  It was a wonderful time of games and food and (as I said above) laughter and laughter and laughter.  Then, this evening, I led an online poetry workshop.  Two of my closest poet friends Zoomed in.  We wrote Pablo Neruda odes to the things in our lives and homes.  So, in a way, we celebrated the present with words and language.

Poetry is a very immediate kind of art form.  Each poem preserves a tiny life moment--its emotions and physicality.  Perhaps that's why I fell into this poetic life I lead--because I want to deeply observe each of my experiences.  To find meaning and, when available, revelation.

Saint Marty's biggest revelation today:  never let a stranger pick out his corn on the cob.