The Joy of Being Present

I love life.  I enjoy being alive.  I always have.  

Like Thoreau, I’ve always wanted to “live deep and suck out all the marrow of life.” I have traversed oceans, learned foreign languages, and said YES to every invitation out of a personal conviction to miss nothing.

There was one problem though: I typically desired to rush to the next phase of life, the next opportunity, the next country, the next state, the next whatever.

Most people associate being present with Buddhist mindfulness, but the idea of focusing on the now appears in all the religions I’ve investigated. The Sanskrit word “vartamana” signifies both living and the present moment, as contrasted with the past (bhuta) and future (bhavisyat). 

In Christianity, Yahweh is the great “I AM.” Jesus himself said not to be anxious for tomorrow (Mathew 6:34). God urges us to release the past as he does a “new thing” (Isaiah 43:18-19). Yet I thought occasionally about the past and almost constantly about the future. 

My forward motion slowed against my will during pregnancy, when my joints loosened and said, “No more!” I felt resentful. I drove home from work one day and saw a woman in her 20s running up a hill beside the road. I yearned to join her, and to pick up a lacrosse stick and play even though I hadn’t since college.

After Cub was born, I had no choice but to slow down. My body became increasingly depleted as my immune system failed. When I eventually started losing my motor coordination, I yelled at my body mercilessly. “How could you do this to me!? I treated you well! There are people eating McDonald’s every day! Go bother them!”

As I declined, I knew part of my body’s failure stemmed from it growing tired of not being present. I had lived much of my life anticipating a future happiness instead of adequately appreciating my current happiness.

In spring, I yearned for summer. I missed the endless sunshine and the freedom from schoolwork. My childhood friends and I swam in the pool or ocean until we puckered like old orange peels and let the sun zap us dry.

In summer, I yearned for fall, for the smell of leaves decaying and crunching beneath my feet. I missed the excitement of first day of school outfits, new pencil cases with multi-colored erasers and the blaze of the sun on golden leaves.

In fall, I yearned for winter. I missed the cold, clean air, the sanctity of the first snowfall, and the thrill of building a snow fort and pretending to be an Eskimo.

In winter, I yearned for spring. I missed the shock of snow melting off the mountains against my bare feet as my friends and I ran up and down our street. I missed the smell of the damp earth unveiled and watching the green of grass and trees recover itself. 

The garden changed that. The garden taught me to embrace each season and stop anticipating the next one. I moved from anticipation to appreciation, to being filled with God regularly, to kneeling and embracing I AM. I understand that the blessing of eating seasonally extends beyond nutrition; eating off of our land has slowed down my perception of time. When God brings the rain we need and the land bears fruit, I know that I’m experiencing the truest happiness I have ever known. I live more truly in that moment of gratitude than years of prior life combined.

This is the first year of my life that I have understood how God blessed the latter half of Job’s life more than the first.

I am (hopefully) not in the latter half of my life. But I’m so relieved that the tumult of my 20s is over. Every day felt like either a safe landing after skydiving or like perpetually being punched in the face. I got so tired.

 Now, I do not long for a future moment to arrive. 

Now, I’ve stopped asking God if he really promised me what I thought he said. 

Now, I take God at his word, even when the natural world doesn’t seem to indicate I should.

Now is enough. 

How has God blessed you differently as you’ve gotten older? What is the joy of the life phase you’re currently in? Let me know in the comments!