MOMENT BY MOMENT

Who is it that steals the hours of my day and causes life’s moments to speed rapidly away? Why have the wonderful spontaneous pleasures of youth become but fond memories? Who can comprehend the strange calendar compression as life rushes by? Why does life seem like a daily unfolding repetitious cycle leading to the day of relief when it is at last covered by the shroud of death?

The names of the characters change, the stage’s scenery varies, the plot is but vaguely veiled as it repeats itself in each new scene, the lines seem like echoes of those which filled yesterday’s now ancient halls, yet reality makes the setting always now.

I don’t know what happened, my goals seemed so solid…
We had planned so well so long ago for those wonderful days when…
Living will be a more wonderful experience when I finally finish…
When I no longer have to punch a time clock…
When the constancy of caring for the children…
When our ship finally comes sailing in…

When, that ever-fleeting when, which robs the dimly seen future, which steals, forgets and covers until one day we awaken to realize that that which was, never is and that which is to be, never comes. Goals and plans somehow turn into dog-eared tattered bits of paper. Finished tasks meaninglessly merged into the humdrum of regimented routine. Children sailed away in ships meant to unload their goods on our now forlorn shore.

Open your eyes look about and behold those fortunate few for whom the scenes continually vary, the plot excitingly freshens, and the lines are forever vibrantly alive. Those few who fortunately in their youth learned to follow wisely the stored up wisdom of the ages which has forever taught whoever would willingly learn, that today is life and life can only be lived in the now of each moment.

Yesterday is a vault never reentered, storing experiences full of treasures and memories.

Experiences and treasures which can be built on today but never again tangible in reality.

Tomorrow is a wispy wild wind, never controlled, filtering hopes, carrying clouds of dreams.

Hopes and dreams can become guidelines but are never tangible in reality.

Today is life – happy and sad – productive and slothful –learning and forgetting –equal and unfair – friendly and alone.

The day will soon enough be upon us when timelessness will be our continual state; a state, ironically, when all time is present. It might be wise to begin now to cultivate a sense of now-ness in my life so that then I will feel comfortable in my everlasting home when life truly becomes one eternal round. I must start today to become more diligent in my attempts for constancy in my refusal to be bound by the continual reminiscences of past glories or a captive of visions of future triumphs.

My script in the True Book of Life does not contain dialogues of oft repeated scenes of days now lost nor monologues of future intentions impossibly conquered on today’s stage, but it is being written line upon line as I live my life to the fullest moment by moment.