Do Not Mourn the Living

A Manifesto of Presence

I have been doing this all wrong. Sitting with miles of calendar pages in my lap like Kerouac, red pen poised.

Shaking my head with fistfuls of hair, elbows digging into my thighs.

Lamenting my inability to fill squares of time that haven’t even had the opportunity to hatch yet. Who am I to tell them what to become?

When did we become so preoccupied that we forgot how to breathe? Did you hear that? The man you passed on the sidewalk gulped for air like he was drowning in his rock salt-covered briefcase. We are, I think.

Drowning.

There is so much death.

Must we also mourn the living?

I ran out of birdseed so I emptied my coffers of pumpkin seeds I keep hidden in the back of the freezer. I wait every morning for the cardinal to come. He cocks his head, curious, at this seed without a shell but he doesn’t question it. He is not wondering if this treasure trove will be available tomorrow.

He doesn’t believe he always has to work hard to be worth living- he only knows he needs nourishment to weather the cold for now. He brings some back for his mate, hidden in the branches, too cold to fly.

I have been doing it all wrong.

Looking years ahead to grieve what has not come and missing the twitter of laughter when the bus drops the children off in the snow. We ask them what they dream to be when they are older instead of asking what they dream right now. Dragons, I suppose. A friendly gnome. Ice cream for dinner. A good friend. All preferable, I think, to a desk job and an ergonomic chair.

I do not want to alarm you, but nothing actually matters outside of this solitary moment, too-long nails clacking on keys - the “k” still sticking from a slime incident gone awry (as all slime incidents do).

I

So what will you do with it?

What will you choose with it?

What will you dare to be present for that you have been ever so afraid of?

What might it teach you?