It’s an edgy Tuesday. Found a bug in my bed. Window was open to the wind. One gust at the right moment hurled its skinny thorax through the screen and one flip of the curtain sent it sprawling onto my pillow. No damage to its head during passage however. Either that or it came back riding one of the camping mattresses… So now I’m imagining dealing with an infestation on top of just trying to make work.
It’s a Tuesday that has its teeth on edge. Like Monday ate sour grapes. The sun’s six o’clock slant had no salubrious effect on my walk to Starbucks–what with a norwester clipping along ricocheting off buildings and pavement and sticking me with grit. The wind in its old battle with the sun. You would think it would give up already.
So I’ll wait. Not like I have a choice. But one morning it’ll be back again–the sun–reaching in and flowing down the spine, flooding cells, fibres, corpuscles, with warm light-waves, skin doing a slow ripple-tingle…that’s the sun I like. Me, a Lite-brite–the sun a big warm bulb. It’ll come.
It’s looking forward to things that keeps us going. I don’t like the idea, but it’s the way it is. I don’t like it because I live with the romance of learning to be so in tune with the moment that future plans have no bearing on my emotional state. I imagine my "second naiveté" to be just over there, only a season of meditated Psalms away. And when I get to that enlightened place, worry will melt and I’ll meet every blustery day with a knowing smile the size of St. Theresa’s serenity.
Thing is, there are methods and meditative movements that sweeten the prospect of being liberated from life-unhinged-from-place. And I’m an advocate of anything that moors us to our bodies–pasting us to the present–living our lives. But that’s a discipline that takes discipline. Like any.
Perhaps however, no matter how nirvana-nated, no matter how well the ectoplasm emanates, docking us to now, we still need some reflection of future to keep us kicking and alive. After all what is native possibility? Is it not a posture of leaning hopefully into the foreground of time? And this leaning doesn’t necessarily have to tip into anxiety. Does it? And anyway, is not this view-to-the-new perfectly human? And that precious unencumbered moment I long for, is it not hyper-linked to both polls of time? Can I really experience placement, the place-of-place, outside of a place beyond? No, I’m thinking we are all tuned telologically. All our time-capsules are tensed by contingency.
So edgy-Tuesday, you’ve got me shakin’ like a leaf, but I’ve got a date with Hawaii in October, so still yourself.