In this moment,
I am alive.
I want to embrace this moment,
hold it,
but it is not easy.
By the time I do it,
it is already the next moment.
In this moment,
I am alive,
and the next moment,
alive still.
Eventually there will be a moment when this is no longer true.
In this moment,
I see the white ceramic cup on the table by my chair.
The cup is a gift from a dear friend.
I cherish the friendship,
and cherish the aroma of the coffee
within the cup.
Beside the cup,
a book by Alice Munroe.
A bookmark pokes out of its pages
about half-way through.
I pick up the book,
run my finger along the spine slowly,
across her name,
across the title.
In the moment,
I am grateful to Alice for her work
that has brought me joy in past moments
and will continue to bring me joy in moments to come.
I pay attention to my breath,
inhale in one moment,
exhale the next,
feel the sensation of air
moving over my upper lip.
I do this for many moments,
more than I can count,
with my eyes closed.
I open my eyes into a new moment,
literally into a new world
that is different than the world only a moment ago.
Somewhere in the world,
possibly very close by,
a child was born.
A new human.
A new world.
Morning light through dark clouds
casts no shadows.
Raindrops bounce on the sidewalk
outside my window.
There is silence,
but for the soft whir of my fan.
The city still sleeps.
I touch the leaf of my Chinese Evergreen,
feel the texture.
In this moment,
we are both alive,
and the next moment,
both alive still.
Eventually there will be a moment when this is no longer true.