In Quiet Moments

It may sound childish, but I marvel at how many things are happening all at once, and that, somehow, they become one thing — a single grand movement, which may or may not have meaning or direction, but, rather, the quality of blossoming, or unfolding, seemingly in my presence.

My own body, with its wondrous workings, is an immediate example; it’s also a symbol, because in it there are battles being waged and myriad other interrelated events, unknown or unknowable, while others go unnoticed unless brought to my attention by pain, injury, or illness.

In a larger sense, in any given moment there might be a choir singing; a man climbing a mountain; a surgeon saving the life of his patient; a teacher weeping because the parents of her students have little or no interest in their children’s education; a robin splashing in a birdbath; a star being born; a march for peace; a family killed by a bomb — and yet it’s all one thing, and this thing we casually refer to as Life.

Depending on our view or disposition, we might think it’s beautiful; or, overwhelming and out of our control; or, maybe even of no concern of our own. Yet in quiet moments, we always know that it’s quickly slipping away, and that if we don’t relish and appreciate it, if we don’t actually live it, now, we might be missing our last opportunity ever to do so — that is, if we’re fortunate enough to have quiet moments, or willing and wise enough to grant them to ourselves.

To me it naturally follows that we aren’t only in the world, or of the world; we are the world, and the world is us, in the same way a drop of water is the ocean, and the ocean exists in a drop of water. A drop that falls into the ocean has nothing to fear, because it was water all along. It’s the same with us. We’re born into the world because we’re the world already. And we will go on being the world even after our minds and bodies say, Enough, no more, let me rest — for now.

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