On a whim I went to my favorite Tavern. (There are a surprisingly great number of restaurants in my small town, so it’s just one of many). I had planned on just reading and writing another scene while eating a burger and a Dark and Stormy. That drink was introduced to me by my book cover artist and dragon designer Grant Searcey. They go great with my favorite burger—though I’ve been going down the list and trying different ones.
Much to my delight, Grant was there with his wife Mindy with some friends. Mindy is a yoga instructor and owner of North Georgia Yoga Center. I had not had as many opportunities to talk with her as I had to talk with Grant. That day I stayed much later than I’d intended, and in company I did not expect.
One of the things she was saying to her friend, was that we lived in a town where most people were looking for tomorrow. They as yogini’s (if I get that term right) were always in the now, learning to be in the moment, that now space—no matter what it is.
It stuck with me. The delight of that joyous meeting, and far more conversation than merely that brief discussion which ranged widely, is with me now. I’m not sure if most of our neighbors in this area are people who are always trying to look to the future, be saved for heaven, that life only happens after something else happens… Well, that last phrase is probably true no matter what people’s faith might be. I see Buddhists struggling with that as well. We are all human.
Now is as a fulcrum to the past and the future. And it’s part of so many things, so many threads that we’re constantly at threat of being pulled off balance, or we’re already off balance, and things are trying to get us back into that one constant moving space of balanced now. It’s the avoidance of now, and whatever it brings, that rules me more often than it should. Why? Because I have to brave emotions, real ones—that darker and lighter. The deep, intense grief of saying good bye to a loved one, the peace of just watching a group of deer nose greens from under dead leaves so they can eat, the surprise joy of meeting friends—and braving my fears of rejection despite knowing they do like me.
I’d planned on working on my book when that group of deer showed up the other day. I let it be what it was. And when I get frustrated because I need to write and life gets to me, that’s part of now as well. I can be frustrated, and become stressed out. Stress isn’t fun, but it’s a moving part of life; it can’t last. If I can accept whatever “Now” brings me, I can only be a better writer.