Here and now

It feels real. (Image credit)

I've been very future-focused lately. Even more so than usual.

There are layers of reasons for that. I'm fasting during the day, and fasting is hard. It's tempting to think about how I'm going to feel when I get to eat dinner in a few hours.

I'm away from my husband and my home.

I'm closing my middle school program, which means that everything I'm currently doing is nothing that I will be doing in the future.

And let's not forget the ongoing pandemic and a terrifying and unpredictable war.

The future is unknown, and that's a little more appealing than the present for someone like me, who looks to the unknown with more anticipation than apprehension.

But, as I'm learning from my friend David Martin's brilliant Mind2Win program, I lose my power when I'm too focused on being somewhere else, traveling to the future or another city in my mind. I gain resilience and effectiveness when I can be "more here, more now."

I know this is true. I grew up hearing, "stay in today." Ironically, the only true relief from the discomfort of the moment is to lean into the discomfort of the moment. What is it trying to teach me, even if I'd rather be learning something else right now?

Instead of counting down the minutes until I can start a new project, travel to new places, see loved ones, or have a snack, I can stay present with what I'm doing, here and now. It is hard. But as David reminded me, to do otherwise is to resist what is. And that struggle against reality doesn't fix it — it just drains my energy.

When I actually stay present — when I feel the breath going in and out of my body and my feet on the ground — I learn that it is just right. I'm exactly where I should be. The sensations I'm experiencing — hot or cold or hungry or tired — are just what they are, neither good nor bad. The work I have to do is similarly neutral. I just keep breathing and being.

On a practical level, a lot of what I have to do is slow down and redirect my attention. That might mean reading a thing out loud if I'm having a hard time concentrating. It might mean asking someone to clarify what they are saying to make sure I'm understanding them correctly. And when all else fails, it means putting on a favorite song and living inside it for a few minutes. Whatever it takes.

The stupidest part is that I am actually so grateful to be where I am, doing what I'm doing. I remember how devastated I was when school went online in the spring of 2020 and I was a thousand miles away in Maine. We couldn't do any of our end-of-year celebrations — we couldn't do anything. And our town closed the beaches and tennis courts. I wore the same ugly beige recycled wool blend sweatshirt for every one of those terrible cold days.

And now, I'm back with my students again. They're finally taking off their masks, flirting and joking around in a way that has been impossible for almost two years. It's eighty degrees and sunny (ah, late winter in Atlanta). I'm playing tennis a few times a week and making new friends, plus seeing old ones. And I'm enjoying all of the international cuisines that I can't get in Maine.

In other words, what I have now is what I once longed for. Do I need any more evidence that this is exactly where I belong?

Flying around, forward and backward in time and space, is a habit. It's a way to escape. But I don't want to escape my life. I want to live it. It sounds silly to say that I'm learning how. But that's exactly what I'm doing.