be here now

Are there other people in the world who are being as stifled by nostalgia as I am?

I'm sitting in my office at a place I've always loved to work at. I have a nice life. I can ride horses whenever I feel like it, I'm surrounded by nature all the time. My husband is easily the best man I know. We are comfortable. The times here are not hard, even though some days feel impossibly long.

But just now I heard a song that wrenched me back three years, to sitting at my desk in the little Garneau house. An open window, cool air, rain drops on the roof. The street was so green, everything was fresh. I'd be walking to work with a lime green umbrella later that day. I'd be staying out until the sun rose with new best friends.

This memory, rather than just being a sweet little glimpse into a very different kind of life I used to live, seems to have closed around my heart like a tight fist. It seems rather than reliving happy memories, I immediately think, "I never go back."

And that thought makes me feel immeasurably sad. It's homesickness, really. Homesick for another time.

I'm never present enough to just enjoy this time.

How can I be here now?

thirty minutes or more

Because I've committed to this challenge, I've been spending a minimum of thirty minutes in nature every day. So far, it's been easy. The weather has finally turned, and it feels like winter might not come back for a while. So I've been spending afternoons wandering around in the not-yet-budded aspen forest, sometimes on horseback, sometimes on foot, once at the reins of a team driving horses. Every day the grass in the field gets a bit greener. I can't wait until there are leaves on the trees. I've had enough starkness for a long while, I think. Those sharp contrasts of wintertime have ceased to inspire me. The ice has come off the lake, at least. And I thought I saw some tiny new buds on the mayday tree at my parents'.

It is a wonderful gift, being out in the world.