Now

March 5, 2019

Past and future veil God from our sight. Burn up both of them with fire. Rumi

I spend a lot of time thinking about the past or worrying about or living in the future. Not wise, I admit, but all too human. When I was young I dreamed a lot of a better future, and now that I’m, uh, no longer young, I spend more time remembering the past than I care to admit to myself or to you.

I was reminded of this tendency yesterday as I exchanged emails with my old friend Montgomery. We were trading stories about Sherman, one of our now deceased Buddhist buddies. Sherman was funny, creative, irreverent, and quick witted. As Montgomery tells it, in the 1970’s he and Sherman “went to see the The Godfather at a movie theater in Berkeley. It was a very violent film, and when the lights went on we were subjected to what was tantamount to a sermon by a young, long haired, and self righteous gentleman. He said, ‘Did you like that violence, people? Did you find that entertaining?’ Sherman was the only person to reply. He said, “Why did you wait until after the movie to tell us this?’ The whole place broke out in laughter, squelching the young man’s screed.”

I enjoy talking with Montgomery in person, by phone, and by email, because in addition to discussing our current lives and travels we speak fondly of current and departed friends. But it occurred to me that maybe he and I sometimes live too much in our shared past. On the other hand, if talking about Sherman makes us laugh and feel good in the present moment, what’s wrong with that? And his Godfather story about Sherman is a wonderful example of someone being so present that he could transform an awkward social moment into an opportunity to allow a theater full of people to laugh at the absurdity of the situation. Sherman lit up the theater, thus enabling a number of people to share a moment of enlightenment.

Like most people in the developed world, I’m too damn busy. I need to slow down, breathe, and appreciate each moment. A little while ago I went out to the mailbox, and made a point of noticing the cool winter air, the fading daffodils, the bare trees, and the quiet of my rural neighborhood. I feel so good when I remember to take a few moments to breathe and to align myself with my inner stillness.

One of my best experiences of being truly present in the moment was sitting by my dad’s bedside as he lay dying. He had been in a coma for two days, and I got to be alone with him in his final hours until my two sisters rejoined us at the very end. He was a good man and a great father, and I was filled with appreciation for his love and support, as well as his peaceful death. As I sat next to him, listening to his slowing breathing, I kept hearing in my head a hauntingly beautiful song by Andrea Bocelli. I didn’t know the name of the song, but it somehow captured the poignancy of the moment as Dad and I did nothing but be together. I was sad to be losing him, but assured his sleeping, atheist self that we would meet again. And I was blessed and honored to be with him at the end of his life. I felt eternity and serenity in a way that I have rarely felt, as time stood still and Dad and I were together forever.

A few minutes ago I googled Andrea Bocelli to see if I could learn the name of the touching, uplifting, bittersweet song that was my farewell music with my dad. I was successful. The song: Time to Say Goodbye.

Sherman and my dad may be in my past. And yes, I have let them go. But they are also in my present. And I’m enjoying their company. Now.