We live in a time dominated by blindingly fast and omnipresent technology, and most of the time I love it. Don't you? The phone, the tablet, the apps, Scramble With Friends, the pictures, the updates. Love to work and play with them all.
But the ability to plan/schedule/photograph/upload/post the details, wait for a response, then plot our next move sometimes dulls the shine of the Right Now. How often do you find yourself sending a text while loved ones wait for your attention, or posting a "memory" instead of actually living that memory with both hands free?
Keep in mind that I'm just as guilty as anyone of being distracted from the present reality to check my phone. (My children will verify this.) But I hope that you and I will take special care this month to appreciate what's going on right in front of us, right now.
What I'm talking about can be called savoring. Savoring is the awareness of and paying deliberate attention to the experience of pleasure. It requires that you be still and focus on the good things that are happening in the moment.
I stumbled into an opportunity like this recently. One of my children has, for the past several years, experienced a prolonged, painful illness. Thankfully he's much better now, better every day. His slow transformation from weakness to health has breathed new life into our family. But I hadn't personally felt full relief until I saw him outside a couple of weeks ago.
It was a flawless spring day; you know the kind. The sky floated with cartoon-puffy clouds, and every single plant, every blade of grass sung with green. There in the middle of it all sat my son on a porch swing, his back to the window.
He had gone out to clip his nails, but stayed, looking out onto everything and nothing. Watching him there, I could see that he was at peace, without pain. He was just being, out of space and time, stretched and freckling in the sunshine.
I stood and watched for what seemed a long while, so fiercely thankful for him and his renewed health, overcome with all he is to me and my family, and for this vibrant portrait of his youth, matted and framed by nature's perfection.
I savored it.
That beautiful moment snuck up unexpectedly, unplanned. There it was. And it really only took one minute to take it in. Sixty seconds or so. But in times of worry or frustration, I draw off of its lessons as though it were an hours-long lecture from some revered guru.
We all have experiences like this; you're probably remembering a few as you read this now. Here are some ideas on how to make the most of them. They come from the book Authentic Happiness by Dr. Martin Seligman.
Tell someone.
Seek out others to share the experience and tell them how much you valued the moment. This is the single strongest predictor of pleasure. (I can verify that writing about my moment and sharing it here made it all the more real and enjoyable.)
Build on it.
Take mental photographs or even a physical souvenir and reminisce about it later with others. Capture every little detail that you can.
Congratulate yourself.
Don't be afraid of pride. Remember how long you've waited for a moment like this to happen*. It's ok if others are impressed by it too. Maybe they'll be inspired by your example.
Focus.
Focus on certain elements and block out others. When I think back to my moment, it's all visual, but wow, what a visual -- a profusion of colors and textures and light. No sound, no smell, no taste, just one matchless view.
Absorb.
Let yourself be totally immersed and try not to think beyond the moment. Don't remind yourself of what you should be doing, wonder what comes next, or consider ways in which the moment could be improved upon.
Just live it.
I hope that this month you find a beautiful moment of your own and savor it. If you'd like to write it out and are willing to share, please send it to me at pennyrackley@mac.com. I promise to read it with my full attention!
- Penny
* My family and I have to give a special thanks here to Dr. Michael Russo and his excellent, persistent and compassionate care. You made this moment possible.
