Its been a strange kind of May. Strange in the sense that it is unfolding completely differently from how I ever imagined which is generally exactly how everything usually unfolds. Laced with losses and unbearable grief for people I love and small inconveniences for me. Full of plans that got cancelled and timetables that have been changed. I’ve found myself out of sorts and uncomfortable and feeling tight, disconnected, a little paralyzed. I feel drained of my superpowers, doubting I ever had them. All weekend I have walked around feeling cotton-headed and spacey and terribly overwhelmed. I feel not myself at all and not in the least bit grounded.
Out of school and setting up my practice I am now in a stage that is all about “getting to the next stage”. Its strange really. After years of practicing being simply present with what is, I wake up each morning to find myself constantly anticipating the thing that will come next–whether its the start of the summer or getting my practice to the next big place. I am constantly looking ahead at the schedule–what is coming next and then next after that? I am having discussions with Max about the rhythm of days that won’t unfold for weeks, focusing on getting to a magic number of patients per month. My eyes have suddenly gone out of focus–trained too long on a magic horizon which is really just illusion. This is how I have lost my way.
In our house we are in transition spaces. At 13 Max is becoming. Becoming a teen. Becoming a man. I am becoming too. Becoming healer. Becoming old and wise. In this Facebook-era, more than ever we are focused on the big moments which seem to arrive out of nowhere in my feed–things that are done and complete and neat and tidy celebrated with punctuation marks. But we are really all constantly in transition. We are constantly becoming–there is no other way–but we have falsely thought that there is a magic arrival place that is somewhere else–a place called NOT HERE. When my practice is full. When its summer vacation. When the house is clean. When the teenagers stop acting like jerks. When your eyes are focused on the horizon it is easy to feel that the place you need to be is anywhere but here.
Max and I were sitting on the couch, watching the Sandlot–one of our all time favorite films. He was leaning on my ever so slightly–what passes for cuddles now that he is 13. And then it hit me THIS. This is my life. This is my life that I love. Now–not next month when I will have so many patients or when summer is in full swing. Not next week when I have caught up on sleep and laundry. Not next year when the garden is weeded. Not one day when it all somehow comes together in some magical formulation that I can’t even now anticipate. The magic is now. Right now. With the aches and pains and the mess and the stumbles and the completely imperfect ways I make mistake after mistake. How could I have forgotten the lesson my life keeps telling me again and again?
Moving my eyes from some make believe tomorrow and training them right now on what is here is the only way to bring it all into focus again. This is a lesson I learn over and over and forget with predictability.