Just a Moment

It's about the moment. A moment in time. Stretched out. Examined. Experienced. Lived. A moment that, once past, will never be repeated. Even in memory, the moment is a mere echo. Less substantial. And then . . . poof . . the moment is gone. Like live theatre. One off shows. How can I appreciate the moment when it occurs? How can I make time stretch so that I can touch and see it. Smell and hear it. Taste it. Rub my back against its shoulders and feel its weight drop to the ground. I don't want to control it. I want to be fully engaged within it. A part of it. A moment where I feel energy coursing around me, through me, within me and out from me. The exact point where energy is both given and received. Kind of sounds like an orgasm eh?

I am, of late, feeling pulled in numerous directions. It's difficult to be fully present in the present as strange as that might sound. How can I expect the metaphorical sex to be any good when my focus keeps being drawn to what's happening outside the window, or, worse yet, what's not happening on the ceiling. On Saturday, I did my 5th kyu exam in Aikido. I had a good time. It brought back feelings of performance. I felt, for the first time in a long time, that I was centred. There. Fully present. As soon as I was finished, my euphoria continued for a brief time but then I looked at the clock. I started wondering when the rest of the exams would be complete. Would I have to leave early? What was the protocol? I had to get my kids. I tried to lend my support to the others being examined but my energy was divided. I was already gone from one moment and living in the next.

I wonder if this 'dog chasing its tail' mentality is part of a larger societal problem? It seems that folk are constantly running towards something that can never be achieved. Much like imaginary numbers. I was first introduced to the concept of imaginary numbers in Grade 11 math. They struck me as hugely problematic. It was explained to me that if we take steps towards a wall and always half the distance from one step to the next, we will never reach the wall. I wondered how math could ever be used to create an elegant equation to explain everything if an end result could never be achieved except through numbers that didn't exist. I was told to accept the equations as fact and not to question how they came about. My aptitude for math dropped that year from a 95% to a 60%.

Perhaps it would have made more sense if I had thought that imaginary numbers were like fiction (please note that I am in no ways a mathematician and am probably completely misunderstanding this entire concept...I do like a good metaphor however and I'm going to run with it). A fictional tale does not pretend to tell you what really happened. Nonetheless, a fictional tale can reveal truths not necessarily evident if one were to relate exactly what happened in real time. Fiction allows one to stop time. Examine the moment, as it were. (I might like to add here that I am a fan of both fiction and non fiction and find their differences to be not that great. The best fiction reveals universal 'truths' that help to explain, unveil, reflect or reveal the world around us in a new and, perhaps, yet to be examined light. The best non fiction tells a story that does the same. I see the dividing line between the two groups to be blurry at best).

But, back to the moment at hand. It is too easy to get distracted. Perhaps this is where meditation could work? Learning to relax one's mind to allow for the moment to be realized fully? I dunno. I just feel that I and many others are missing out on moments when we dwell on past echos or imagine future scenarios. There is a saying that states that one should 'live in the moment.' Easier said then done I think but, probably well worth striving for.

What Helps Make My Job Worthwhile

Me: Hi There. I'm just calling to confirm your booking time and your technical requirements for your upcoming event. We have you scheduled from 6pm to 10pm. Is this correct?

Client: Yes. That is correct. We will be there at 6pm. My wife and I will be there earlier to set up. You have risers?

Me: Yes we have risers. At what time will you and your wife be arriving?

Client: 5pm

Me: Ok. I'll change your booking time to reflect a 5pm start.

Client: That is good. We have told the musicians to arrive at 5:30pm for their sound check.

Me: Ok. How many musicians will there be?

Client: Only one. Guitar, tabla and harmonium.

Me: So there will be three performers?

Client: Yes. That is correct.

Me: Will the guitarist need a vocal mic? Will he be speaking to the audience?

Client: No. He won't be speaking to the audience. He will only say a few words before each number.

Me: Maybe we'll have a vocal mic on stand by just in case?

Client: Yes that will be good.

Me: Ok. I'll see you at 5pm on Sunday.

Client: How much earlier than that can we get into the theatre?

Me: ??

It's Hard

It's hard. It's hard to bring him up. It's hard to discuss. It's hard to acknowledge.

I want to thank a friend. Many actually. One in particular. My son and I went over for a visit. Bringing candy. With no discomfort she, my friend, brought up my son's dad. In a good way. There was no hesitation. She mentioned his dad in a way that made my son proud. A way that gave my son a feeling of connection with his father. A connection that was ok. I found that I could bring him up with more ease then too.

I'd stopped doing that. Stopped bringing him up. Stopped discussing him. Stopped thinking about him. I tried anyway. Consciously. Unconsciously. When we first split up I tried to keep his name in the open. I tried to keep a relationship current between him and the kids. It was hard. I felt that I was fighting a losing battle. I thought it was important to keep bringing him up for the sake of the kids. I wanted him to call more. See the kids more. I eventually stopped. It was tiring. On the occasions that he did call, I found myself becoming irritated. Feeling interrupted. It was easier for me, as time went on, to just pretend he didn't exist.

My friend opened a door. By bringing up my son's father nonchalantly in conversation, she acknowledged my son's history. His lineage. She acknowledged that his father was a part of his life. This was good. This is good. This is something that I can do. Should do. I am starting to tell stories to the kids about my past. Their dad is a part of my past. Our past. I no longer feel the urge to censor things. I can tell them funny stories. Loving stories. Life stories. What's different is that I don't have to depend on Xman to make the effort to take an active role in their lives. I can't make him call. I can, however, give my children a sense of belonging. A sense of history.

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Coda:

I took the 'missing' posters down from the office walls today. 'I guess she's not missing anymore,' said my boss. 'Yes she is,' I replied. 'It's just that the posters won't help to find her anymore.'