To be fully in a moment and to step back and quietly observe a moment are equally powerful exercises. In both we can be blissfully unaware of time. Some people paint those moments of observation, or sing them, or stitch or run them, or work their vocabulary over them. Some, probably the wisest of us, simply breath them, letting moments move like a steady stream through our consciousness. Full and empty in equal measure.

Most of the time we zoom right through our moments, hardly bothering to absorb much of what we are experiencing. Our agendas demand disconnectedness. The pressing needs of others command our attention. Even as we take hundreds of pictures (and post them!) we have already missed what we are trying to capture. Filtering our view through digital light, creating a frame so small in comparison to the limitlessness of what is around us.

As I move into my ‘wise’ years, I make efforts to slow down and observe, to breath with intention, to accept and move on. My well worn habits to the contrary make this a challenge, but there are always opportunities to reconnect with the now.

Last week I spent every morning on a balcony with a view of the barely recognizable distinction between ocean and sky. A horizon line that drew my eyes much further than they could actually see. Thick, humid air in my lungs, bird song in my ears, gratitude in every cell. Later I would swim out where no one could hear me, then float on my back, allowing myself to become part of the horizon, bellowing my thanks to the Universe as salty tears of joy disappeared beneath my weightless body.

Journal entry, June 11, 2017:

I rise at 6:30 Costa Rica time. I am alone with good coffee and the roaring ocean as it rolls to shore in its ceaseless effort to turn stone into sand.

The reminder that my humanness – ego and id – are simple matters to be easily pulled under and re-established as no matter of consequence, is a comfort. I count no more or less than a star fish. My troubles, my joys, mean little or nothing at all. As much as the shells that drift and settle to the bottom of the sea.

The idea that I don’t matter, that none of us really do, has always been a comfort to me. In cities it is hard to remember because the inventions of opposable thumbs and wild ego driven imaginations rule. But I’ve lived in snowy mountains, near fierce oceans, and in drought ridden country sides and I know that Nature will prevail. My only role is to be in each moment as it happens, sometimes stepping away to observe them.