I’ve pulled the kantha quilt up over the bed—quickly so as to keep Tuxedo from nesting in the sheets. Though the forecast called for a thick cloud cover and snow, there’s a bit of sun out. I have cards to write and packages to tape and the living room to ready for tonight’s cocktail hour. I owe Jenny an email and should respond to the jury summons. I can read or watch another episode of “Happy Valley.” But really—what I want to do is stand on my chair and shout “What now?” “What the f*%*k now!” What now between today and death? What now between this moment and frightening debility? For what do I get up in the morning? Or plan my day around?
I knew this ennui would come. How could it not on the far side of my trip to India. Beyond the “glow of India” as Pippa so eloquently put it. What else would compare? I knew but hadn’t worked out a plan. I knew the holidays were coming and that meant gift organizing and letter writing. I knew, too, that dark days and icy walks were waiting—not just for the couple months of this year, but four or so of next. And I still dodged reality.
Even another trip to India might not measure up—were I to baby my knees and buttress my confidence. (Though I’d take the risk in a heartbeat!) And Europe really no longer appeals. Europeans would rather we stay home (for good reason).
I talk about Montana road trips next summer. A worthy project for sure. But right now, this November day, it doesn’t resonate as the answer to today’s existential question.
Then there’s the carpeting that needs replaced and the windows that belch cold through the winter. And I’ve gone years without volunteering. Or visiting with friends in other states—replacing the trips cut off by Covid.
I could cook—for a change. I have all these supplies for collage. I can think of three or four folks waiting to be invited over for tea and crumpets. I might even discover more memoir essays to write.
But you will have realized by now that I’m just throwing an emotional tantrum. I WANT a BIG TREAT now! I want SOMEONE to make reality go away. I WANT what I said when I ended the last essay: to be young again—to consider a smorgasbord of exotic adventures!
And yet, and yet, when I simmer down. When I’m honest with myself however briefly. When I quit screaming and wrassling around symbolically on the ground, I realize that what I have is today. Today. This ordinary, not-so-bad, groundhog day today. This routine, unexciting, practical dull day. And I am returned to the reality of being home—being back from India, back from the amazing adventure I just experienced which seems to have triggered this aftermath of hysterics.
But . . .
But if India taught me anything . . . the backwaters of Kerala and the tin-and-tarp suburbs of Mumbai. Or if Johnny on the rice boat or the sleepy rickshaw driver in Panji or the Kathakali actors presenting their umpteenth performance or the achingly polite young boy at Travancore who fetched my laundry demonstrate anything. . . Or if Gaza or Nigeria or Sudan remind me . . . Or if the poet in whom I’ve found such powerful wisdom, Andrea, can break through my selfishness . . . It is that today, this set of 24 hours, this single span of sun and moon, is priceless beyond measure. Is nothing short of miraculous. That in it I can sleep and wake and cuddle the cats, can fill my tummy and laugh over the lines of a sitcom, talk to Amanda and do up some dishes and pay the bills that arrive in this day’s mail. I can be cozy and read and sit here to write or look up the definition of any word that puzzles me. I can walk and stretch and complain and celebrate whatever I want. In this blindingly, astonishingly never-before-minted today. Which is all that any human, in whatever circumstances, has. Which is the reality and horror and delight that arrives on each of our doorsteps.
If wrapped in bright foil and laid on my lap, today would be more expensive, more rare than all the gold and frankincense and myrrh the wise men delivered to Bethlehem. It brings the very gift I most want—a smorgasbord of adventures—even framed by the elusive nature of time. What’s young and what’s old, after all. So what if I can’t return to 19 or 39, I have been given today.
Of course, a thousand poets and essayists and reverends and sappy do-gooders have offered this answer before—across time, in fact. Across cultures. This isn’t new advice—for me either. But for sure I’ve needed its reality, its truth especially now. I have spent so much of my life living the “next” and the “whens.” And I’ve been stunningly lucky to have a lot of nexts in my life. Intriguing, alluring ones. And I haven’t had to anticipate a day of hunger, a day of bullets, or even a day of mind-and-body-destroying work. Or many days of ill health or tedium. It seems I’ve grown so spoiled by fine, ordinary days that I’ve lost the thread of their wonder.
And more than a lecture on the rarity of today, wonder is, in fact, the operative noun. Well, the operative verb too. I realize that to treasure this day – requires treasuring the moments and experiences and phrases and tastes and sillinesses of the day. It becomes critical to live the day in granular moments—to be on the lookout for what’s new or colorful or odd or sweet or berserk or frightening or amazing–in all the ways that I approached India.
So for instance, I need to remember the little 4’8” woman at the adjacent post office counter whose face couldn’t hold one more wrinkle—figuring how to insure a package for $10,000. What the ???? Or determine the exact elevation at which this morning’s snow stopped—something like a football field’s length below where I live. Or focus on Tuxedo’s new hiding space—a move from the bathroom cabinets to a spot just under the bed where he’s covered by the fuzzy blanket. Why does he feel more secure there? Or savor a combination of words in my historical fiction book set in Nepal. Or settle in bed with a toasty rice pack, utterly at home in my home, watching the big sky out my window, on the scalloped edge of the universe. More than DAYS, life is moments. Waiting to be seen!!
So, today’s the day, it seems, to gut up and live the essence of life’s most important lesson. It is all and only about today as the eternal miracle. In fact, it is only feeling and wondering through this moment. ©
