You are currently browsing the tag archive for the ‘Being in the moment’ tag.

I’m so in each moment these days that it feels a little bit unnerving. All those thoughts that usually overrun my head have gone a bit silent. Even with all the divisive news of recent weeks, I have my strong opinions but not so much that I have big words I can follow down the rabbit holes. Don’t know whether to try to stir up my thoughts on my own or to take this fallow period as a time of rest and underground growth.

(c) 2015 Trina Lambert

(c) 2015 Trina Lambert


So my moments are often filled with activities such as dog walks—lots of dog walks since our daughter got her puppy about five weeks ago. Of course, if we’re available when she is walking her puppy, we ought to walk our own dogs, right? Walk we do—this street and that street—serpentine if you will to keep that puppy from thinking he’s in charge and knows where we are going. I see raindrops on blooms, flowers gone bold in this oddly wet growing season, new paint colors on houses, as well as nighttime light from porches and the bluish glow coming from large screens inside.

What is different about those walks from when we walked our dogs before is that we no longer walk in partial anonymity. The puppy draws attention to our little group—despite having lived in our neighborhood for decades, we are meeting people old and new as never before. Perhaps the constant human connection and conversations ground me more into the here and now than previously when I so often could escape into my head?

Beyond walking dogs, most days we also visit my husband’s mother as she rehabilitates from a fracture that led to a partial hip replacement. The puppy comes, too—with or without our daughter—since he is one of the few bright spots in the sameness of my mother-in-law’s days where she is a little too in the moment. The little superstar works her into thinking about what’s good about being able to sit still with a puppy at your side. And on his way in and out of the residence, he brings smiles to staff, other residents, and visitors alike. Although he is an amateur at therapy, he is an expert at causing people to pause.

(c) 2015 Trina Lambert

(c) 2015 Trina Lambert

Life is change—whether it’s a daughter finishing college and trying to find her way or a long-lived person encountering a body that no longer does as she bids or a society debating whether or not to keep traditions. Maybe at times of great change what we most need is a pause.

Although my mind is not much used to pausing, perhaps this little break is just what it needs to figure out what comes next. What better than a puppy (and its paws) to make play from a pause button?

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(c) 2009 Christiana Lambert

(c) 2009 Christiana Lambert

My friend shared on Facebook how differently his life has turned out from the plans he had 30 years ago when graduating from college. Instead of becoming Mr. International-Business, he is back living in his childhood home, after choosing to be his parents’ full-time caregiver. His life is full of love and laughter, despite the tears and despite having to do hard tasks for his parents. He understands how to find joy in ordinary moments such as walking along the river, observing the patterns created while pushing a snow blower, or reveling in sharing memories with his mom and dad while their shaky hands slowly help decorate the Christmas tree. And yet, he is happy in the life he has.

That kind of happy is easy to be around because it’s not the kind of happy that comes from having, doing, and/or achieving. Instead, it’s the kind of happy that comes from being—and loving.

Today I sat in a radiology waiting room with a man so like the one my friend thought he would be all those years ago. This man was busy—and, as far as I could tell, happy with all that busyness. He made one call after another. “I’m not sharing this with anyone else yet.” “I won an award.” “Please change the flight for our nanny for the Hawaii trip.” “I’ll be in a conference call from 2:30 to 5:00.” Call after call, the man just kept going.

Believe it or not, I wasn’t trying to listen—I’m just sharing some of the snippets that kept intruding on my plan to read my book in relative silence—while, once again, waiting for someone I love who was at a medical appointment. I was looking for a quiet, peaceful moment when I could relax and try not to worry about the whys for our visit.

Most likely our visit was just a rule-out activity, but it’s not lost on me that for some people this is the place where what they never planned to experience is discovered.

From the cheerful banter and movement from one phone call after another by the other occupant of the waiting room, I got the impression the man was there for something such as a picture of an achy knee or some other sort of a hitch in his get-a-long—some body part that was slowing down his fast-paced life.

That’s why I was surprised when I heard his offhand tone as he said, “Oh, I’m just waiting to get a CT scan. They want to look at those blood clots in my lungs. They’re saying I might not be able to fly.” After a pause and a short laugh, he added, “Well, that won’t work. I have to be there, you know?”

Despite his almost frenetic activity, I really did get the impression it was no cover for fear. He just didn’t have time for that sort of thing (health difficulties) in his life—he had things to do, people to see, and places to go. Something like that just wasn’t going to slow him down.

I wish him well, but I just wanted to shake him and ask him if he’d heard himself. If nothing else, there are the people who rely on him at work or at the companies with which he deals, not to mention his wife and the two boys under his nanny’s care. Might taking a break from all his plans be better than letting everyone else figure out how to do without him permanently?

Nothing against the man—well, except for the fact it never seemed to occur to him that maybe I didn’t want to listen to all his phone calls—but I question his priorities. His body clearly has some problem, but he acted as if he thought he was just spending time waiting to check off another “to do” from his list.

If that’s the kind of person my friend had become, then we probably would have drifted into way different circles.

But long before his parents became ill, he recognized those original goals weren’t really his. He is a healer of a person, not a wheeler and dealer. I am blessed to know him—the him he was and the him he allowed himself to become. And truly the world would be a better place for us if more people such as he is were the wheelers and dealers of this world, but I don’t think that lifestyle would feed the healers of this world in the ways they need to be fed.

Blessed are those who feel blessed, even when they have few of the trappings of the world—for they know how to slow down and see God in the tiniest grain of sand or while experiencing a nano-second of joy.

Well done, oh good and faithful servant—you “get” it.

(c) 2009 Christiana Lambert

(c) 2009 Christiana Lambert

This continues to be an “am-I-dreaming” sort of fall. Yesterday we had mostly clouds, some lower temperatures, and a nasty bit of wind and then—it got better. Though the grass was crunchy this morning, I’m not sure we’ve still had a major hard freeze. All I want to do is take pictures of this glory, but today, memories and the descriptions will have to do. Out on yet another picture-perfect outdoor excursion, this time I had to give in and just experience the beauty—thanks to leaving my cell phone at home.

So I kept my eyes open and looked around knowing that I could not visually preserve what I saw. Oh, but what I saw . . . you’re just going to have to believe me on this one.

And not only couldn’t I record anything I saw, I also couldn’t obsessively preserve how far I went and how fast (slow) I ran. I couldn’t listen to my “coach in a box” tell me how to sense how my body was doing—I just had to feel the signs without relying on any data.

How’d I do? I don’t know but I also don’t care. I felt good simply because of all the beauty and wonder surrounding me. How could I not have a good run?

I ran between geese, saw all sorts of very happy dogs running and walking beside their humans, watched moms and nannies basking in the sun while wearing infants or pushing strollers, listened to other footsteps crunching on the path, faster and slower, and—kept wondering if I should pinch myself to see if it was all real.

The mirror-like surface of the lake showed me a double view of all that human and not-so-human activity, blue skies, snowcapped mountains, and trees—bare or leafed in colors ranging from green to autumnal. Houses shimmered in that backdrop—an urban wonderland called home for some very lucky souls.

My soul, however, soared just for the chance to be there doing what I was doing in that moment, no matter if I appeared to all the world like a middle-aged woman bound to this earth. But that earth—oh my, what an earth it was.

And when I turned to leave that Garden of Eden of a space—paradise even with its planted gardens turned back to fallow dirt—I walked out into the neighborhood where colors continued to surprise me—especially at ground level—maybe more so for the barrenness of many trees. A few tattered but boldly colored non-native annuals remained peeking from protected spots. But hardy xeriscape perennials continued in full bloom in colors of purple, orange, and gold, scoffing at the minimal nighttime low temperatures we have experienced, as if to say, “You call that cold?”

As I turned my eyes upward, I searched my memories but came up short for the names of all the yellow, brown, orange, and red shades found in my 64-pack of Crayolas I so treasured. I could not find enough words to describe what I saw: this tree with the leaves turned the exact shade to match the burgundy house’s paint, that tree’s fluorescent yellow and orange leaves electrified by white-bright sunbeams, the true green leaves tipped only with gold.

(Only now at home can I access the palette of those shades: maroon, raw sienna, burnt orange, burnt sienna, brick red, ultra orange, orange red, red orange, goldenrod, yellow orange, orange yellow, lemon yellow, and mahogany. Still, I know I saw them all today, along with a spectrum of greens, and it was enough. Really it should have been more than enough, but can you blame me for being greedy enough to want to savor every detail I can?)

Words I can share with you—the pictures you’ll have to imagine for yourselves. These moments of gold are the currency we hoard to keep ourselves through the long nights and muted landscapes soon to come.

(c) 2013 Trina Lambert

(c) 2013 Trina Lambert

Sometimes I have to remind myself that the destination isn’t the only thing that counts. When you are young, you think “When I am five, I can go to school,” “When I am in high school . . .”, “When I get out on my own . . .” and on and on. The problem is it becomes so easy to keep thinking this way even though you long ago stopped being young at all.

So far true mindfulness has evaded me in many situations. When I run, I can’t always focus on body sensing or my breathing. In fact, one of the best parts of running for me is how my mind often takes off on its own journey—which is definitely better than thinking about what may hurt or what I have left to run. Not very mindful I know, but that mind journey is part of most running journeys for me.

On the other hand, when I am doing ZUMBA or dancing, I am just dancing, hearing the beats of the particular song playing. When I was dancing as if I didn’t know my age at my nephew’s wedding in February, I did allow myself to think—briefly—about how old I felt the morning after dancing at another nephew’s wedding in November, but then thought, “What the heck?” My feet prefer the muscle memory of the moment, not the muscle memory of the mornings after–and so I danced on.

In every thing—little or big—that we do, there’s always this tension between journey and destination. For the chores we must do, it’s easy to think that just getting done is what matters, but when we do so, we lose the meditative benefits that can come from doing repetitive movements. In fact, I tend to tempt myself into doing these chores by listening to books or music—which is fine from time to time. But there can also be something very Zen-like about hearing the whir of the wheels as you push the manual lawnmower through the grass and smelling the perfume from the blades of grass now opened to the air.

Moments of flow do not happen when we are focused on the end to the detriment of what is happening around us. They happen when we are just where we are, one minute to the next.

You’re on a journey—don’t miss it while looking for the exit. Too soon, the exit comes for all of us.

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