On every trip I’ve taken after Sept. 11 I am reminded, by the extra security precautions, that things have changed.
On a recent flight to California to see my daughter and her husband, I had to show my “photo ID” five, count ’em, five times, before I stepped foot on the airplane. Maybe it’s Sept. 11 or maybe it’s just the age I am; but it is more and more obvious to me there is no safety in the world, even if I wear my seatbelt, eat a low fat diet and have an annual physical.
The truth is at any time any one of us could die in a horrible, painful way. Out of the blue, out of left field, something could happen. We know intellectually our death is waiting out there for us someday, but the feeling sense of that, perhaps for the best, eludes us.
Not only the finality of death, but the future of me as the person I know myself to be, can change in an instant or through a long process – auto accidents and illness for example. There are no guarantees in life and no reward for being good. There is nothing we can do to insure the safety, health, life and happiness of ourselves or of those we love. Common sense tells us to do as many things as possible to keep us healthy and happy, but the end comes for all someday.
What, then, is there to do? Live it up as if every moment is the last or just go on with life as if nothing has changed? Hedonism and denial – neither seem like a good alternative to me. I am looking for some advantage, something positive in having this veil of illusion lifted.
“Be Here Now” said Ram Dass in the 60s, maybe it’s even more relevant now. I also have a gay friend with a new book out, a novel, “All We Have Is Now.” It is written out of his awareness of the precious, present moment since the AIDS epidemic.
As I sat on the long flight to California a man seated across the aisle opened his bag and took out a beautiful large orange and began to peel it. The space around him, that included me, was filled with the unmistakable pungent scent of orange.
As I closed my eyes and breathed in the scent, I was reminded of a story about Thich Nhat Hanh, a Vietnamese Buddhist monk. One of his students was sitting before him asking questions and discussing. As the young man talked he was eating sections of a tangerine, tossing them one by one in his mouth. Thich Nhat Hahn gently stopped him from talking and said simply, “Eat the tangerine.”
The precious, present moment. Babies are really good at this. Happy – sad, hungry – full, there’s mommy – mommy’s gone now. Then we grow and start thinking and interpreting, our senses dull until we are able to tune out even the most irritating noise and still function. It’s the price we pay for a post industrial society.
But it doesn’t take much to bring back sharp present awareness. Any break from the usual routine, a vacation to a new place, even taking a different route to work can stimulate the senses.
One of my favorite plays is Thorton Wilder’s “Our Town.” I cry every time I see the poignant story about a young woman who dies and then comes back to relive one day of her life. It breaks her heart to see her family going through the day without once stopping to really see each other.
Eat the tangerine.
June 8, 2002