I've read about living in the moment although at this moment, I forget what it's supposed to do for you. Meditation or something. Yesterday I thought about that on and off through the day, wondering what joy there could possibly be in living in each moment when so many moments are unhappy and painful. Sure, there are happy moments too, but do we get to choose which moments to live in and which we speed past with our eyes shut? When I look back at good moments, why do they seem so blurry and un-relivable, while the painful ones go on and on?
There are fifteen more minute-long moments to live through until my doctor gets out of surgery this morning.
In this moment, I can hear Mittens licking a plate in the living room. Maggie is snoring on the couch, although I'm sure her ears are pricked back because she too can hear Mittens, who is probably making his tongue scraping louder than necessary to rub it in to her that he is the one lapping up forbidden plate snacks. The coffee pot gurgles because there's some steam trapped inside it trying to find a way out. The computer is humming. I keep glancing at my watch, is it 9AM yet? I should be in class, or at least struggling in the parking lot of the college to get to it, but I am not in the mind to go. So I'm sitting here, counting moments and wondering why my doctor left me a message Tuesday night that she must talk to me, but wouldn't be back into the office till 9AM today.
At 2AM Wednesday, I woke up and couldn't get back to sleep; in that moment I wrote my will.
On the bright side, she said at my exam last week that 80% of women with irregular cells clear up without needing any treatment. In that moment, I thought, "Funny, I don't remember you telling me that last time I was here." Maybe she's called me because I'm one of those 80% and now I don't need to come in to be examined in three months. Or maybe, some Thursday morning I'll be the one she has in surgery and somewhere else, someone she called Tuesday night will be living in each of their moments, a little bit of fear and a little bit of hope.
There are fifteen more minute-long moments to live through until my doctor gets out of surgery this morning.
In this moment, I can hear Mittens licking a plate in the living room. Maggie is snoring on the couch, although I'm sure her ears are pricked back because she too can hear Mittens, who is probably making his tongue scraping louder than necessary to rub it in to her that he is the one lapping up forbidden plate snacks. The coffee pot gurgles because there's some steam trapped inside it trying to find a way out. The computer is humming. I keep glancing at my watch, is it 9AM yet? I should be in class, or at least struggling in the parking lot of the college to get to it, but I am not in the mind to go. So I'm sitting here, counting moments and wondering why my doctor left me a message Tuesday night that she must talk to me, but wouldn't be back into the office till 9AM today.
At 2AM Wednesday, I woke up and couldn't get back to sleep; in that moment I wrote my will.
On the bright side, she said at my exam last week that 80% of women with irregular cells clear up without needing any treatment. In that moment, I thought, "Funny, I don't remember you telling me that last time I was here." Maybe she's called me because I'm one of those 80% and now I don't need to come in to be examined in three months. Or maybe, some Thursday morning I'll be the one she has in surgery and somewhere else, someone she called Tuesday night will be living in each of their moments, a little bit of fear and a little bit of hope.
posted by Owl Chick at 4/10/2003 08:56:00 AM
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