Be here now

Of my month-long extended stay near the beach in California, two weeks remain.

Is that ONLY two weeks? Two WHOLE weeks? Or simply 14 of the many days in my lucky lifetime? To be taken one at a time.

To be honest, I’m struggling over the question. But the good news is, I’ve noticed.

I’m having moments of what Pema Chödrön, the Buddhist nun and prolific author, calls: the miracle of being conscious rather than unconscious.

When my mind skips ahead from am I having fun, to do I want to move here, I feel the anxiety kick in. Which town? How much rent? Will there be an earthquake? A fire? A flood? What about my son? My friends? My dog?

Then, I remember to breathe.

I grew up in Miami Beach, a few short blocks from the sea. I spent every moment I could under an umbrella, with my feet in the sand. I read like a fiend. Clad in a yellow bikini, I played kadima with the boys. (That’s the Israeli ball-and-paddle game offensively renamed Smashball for the American market.) I swam great distances in the warm open water.

When it was time to go home, I was salty. Salty as in pissed and resentful. My parents expected me home for dinner. Or I had to clean up for my evening job scooping ice cream at Carvel. I had homework!

I loved the beach so much—and it made me so miserable—that I had to move away. But the craving never left me. My mother said it best: When you have sand in your shoes, you can never shake it out.

So, here I am. Prematurely mourning my departure. Plotting my next long-term stay. Weighing the pros and cons of a possible future relocation.

If I’m not not careful—if I’m not aware—I’ll not only ruin the rest of my time in Solana Beach, I’ll also ruin the perfectly imperfect life I have in Denver.

In Taking the Leap: Freeing Ourselves from Old Habits and Fears—which I happened to bring with me on this trip—Pema wrote:

When we look back to our last moment, our last hour, our last day, if we can say we caught ourselves when we were hooked, and interrupted the momentum, if this was true even briefly, we can rejoice.

And if we didn’t realize what was happening, and once again acted in an old familiar way, we can rejoice that we have the ability, the wisdom, to be conscious and actually acknowledge that, and go forward—perhaps older, wiser, and more compassionate, for having made mistakes, for having relapses.

So, my friends, how about we try something together: Whatever we’re doing, let’s take a few breaths and enjoy. Let’s not worry about how to make the feeling last. Or how we’ll get it back once it’s gone.

Let’s look out at the sea. Or the desert. Or the mountains. Or the brick wall across the courtyard from inside our city apartment.

Maybe I’ll move to this beach. Or some other one. And maybe I won’t. Most likely, I’ll keep wandering and wondering, until I see a sign. Until a coconut falls from a tree and hits me on the head.

Meanwhile, for today, I’ll try to do the one thing Ram Das famously prescribed.

I’ll just be here now.