Cockroaches, Cranes & Cannibals
Or... You MUST live in the now.
This past week, I've been in Hudson Valley, New York, helping my daughter pack up her apartment and hunt for a new one in Brooklyn. It's been a tough week with plenty of challenges, like convincing a twenty-six-year-old that she doesn't need eight hundred books. Okay, maybe she does, but at least you and I keep some on a Kindle, right? No? Just me?
Last week, we hopped on the Metro Northbound for the iconic Grand Central Station on our way to an apartment-hunting mission in Brooklyn. Emily slipped her headphones in, and my mind began its relentless spiral of worry. You know when you can't stop worrying about the future or obsessing over the past? You know when every tiny, harmless thought becomes a massive monster of a misgiving who stamps around the inside of your skull until you want to bash your head against the train window in a futile attempt to knock the monster out? No? Just me?
Here I was on the comfy train chugging towards my favourite city in the United States, my daughter next to me bopping her head to the banging piano of Ben Folds, and I was quietly falling to pieces.
"What if we can't find her a place without cockroaches?"
"What if we find a place with a male roommate who turns out to be a serial killer?"
"What if she moves to New York and becomes a heroin addict (so this one is unrealistic, but that misgiving monster is a real jerk.)
"What if we didn't give her the financial skills to handle the high cost of living there? Remember when you took her to Target when she was three and told her she had a dollar to spend and had to pick something? She kept choosing things that were too expensive until finally, she looked at you and said in exasperation, "But, Mommy, I don't know what a dollar is."
Am I making you anxious? Because I tell ya, just sitting here writing this, the anxiety is rising beneath my rib cage.
Then something magical happened.
I saw a heron.
At least, I think it was a heron; it could have been a crane. I'm no ornithologist. This heron crane was standing knee high (are they called knees?) in a cluster of emerald green reeds at the edge of a perfectly still, I mean not a ripple, Hudson River. Its sleek body was poised in regal stillness, but as the train passed, the bird spread its freakingly enormous wings and lifted out of the water as gracefully as a kite. It was like the train was holding the string running forward and had helped the heron catch a breeze. I was in that moment. I lifted my gaze from my lap, where I had been picking at a softening patch of my jeans, and looked outside. I mean, really looked. The view was stunning, and I realized I was missing it all. I was missing all this beauty because instead of being here, at this moment, I was waiting for the call from the cops telling me a serial killer had eaten my daughter (yes, I upgraded him to a cannibal). Instead of savoring a moment that might never come again, given my daughter's impending move, I was fixated on the guilt of once believing a three-year-old could grasp the concept of budgeting.
I wasn't even living my story. I was living in the memories of the past, which aren't reliable, and the worries of the future, which doesn't even exist yet.
I decided I wanted to be in my story and ignore the monster, so I told that story to myself as if I were telling it to you.
I'm on the train to New York with my daughter, who I am so lucky to spend so much time with for the next few weeks. Although, based on the view from this window, it doesn't feel like we could be anywhere near New York City. The river looks like the shining surface of a sexy New York bar. You know, the ones where they pour the resin over the black granite, and you can see your reflection? There are cliffs here. It's as if a giant accidentally stepped off the edge of those lush green fields and fell into the water. He tried to pull himself out, but his fingernails just scraped down the side as he sank, leaving deep furrows of alternating colors in the stone. There's a sailboat. I wonder who's on it? I imagine it's a banker who has a day off from his stressful job in a falsely lit, cramped skyscraper, and now he is out feeding his soul. I wonder if the strident blast of the train's horn disturbs his peace. Without taking my eyes from the view, I reach over and grab my daughter's cold hand. She weaves her fingers into mine and squeezes, and I feel her strength.
As I told myself the story of my now, I began to live in it. And as I lived my now, that story filled my head, pushing out the worries of the future and regrets of the past. The misgiving monster scurried away. I felt a smile on my face.
It's my new trick that I thought I would share with you. Sometimes, it just so difficult to be in the present moment. I find that as I get older, especially since menopause, I find myself inattentive or distracted. But now, when I start to stress, I will tell myself the story of my now. I will tell it to myself as though I was writing it for you to read. I'm going to live in my now. That way, I can be 99% sure I will never meet a cannibal.
JOURNAL PROMPT
Why don't you go for a walk or a drive, find a quaint little café or a cozy coffee shop you’ve never been to? Then, sit down with your journal and glittery pen and write me a story. A story of your now. What can you touch? What do you see, hear, smell, and even taste?
If you feel like sharing, just hit reply. I’d absolutely love to read the story of your now.
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