After some uncertain weeks, we’ve decided to stay near the Pacific and keep trying. We hung art on the walls to make things feel more permanent, more real. Our kitchen table has new candles; everything is a genuine attempt to try and stay where we are. The soil is changing and there are purple flowers budding on the tree next to our house.
Quite suddenly, there is right now.
Right now is away from delay; right now is briefly soon and very rarely later.
Right now is nothing flat: your round eyes looking straightaway, the cat presently hunting an unseen mole, and, quicker than we can bundle ourselves, the fog coming promptly over the grass and setting the ducks asunder.
Utterly, this is now.
Absolutely, this is an affectionate approximation about how fully full right now is.
See, it is a short and wobbly thing to talk about right now because now is a thing unhinged. Now is an unbroken thing where you hold my hand and I loosen my tongue to tell you all about before and after, all about the time that’s come and the time that’s coming. This has everything to do with you, but it lovingly has to do with everything else too. It has to do with things that are millimeters near you and miles away from you; with things seen and unseen, known and unknown. It has to do with the soft recognition that there is much before you, much around you, and much after you. There is much more than you—much more than now—even though you and now are warm and wondrous.