learning to be present

{Wednesday, February 22, 2012. 7:30 a.m.}

I am sitting at a little table in the corner at Clayton’s Cafe, across the street from my office, hand-writing a first draft of this post. Pleasantly full from savory breakfast sandwich I just ate, watching steam rise from my cup of coffee, listening to the early-morning sounds in the kitchen, I am content. Unusually calm.

Bob Marley’s recorded voice sings quietly through the speakers, behind the noise of change clanking into the tip jar as a family pays for their order. From my corner of the room, I have a panoramic view of the little shop: the vaulted ceilings, the bumpy plaster-coated walls, the fine-art photography of local landmarks displayed on those walls. The emergency lighting, illuminated exit signs, and fire alarm pull stations, clues I’ve learned at work which must now be constantly sought out, no matter where I go.

Near the front door, a fidgety-looking businessman stands, skimming the newspaper, waiting for his order to be ready. He is in a rush. This morning, for once, I am not.

My body is tired, unused to being out and about at this hour, and slightly sore from Monday night’s yoga practice. I note the aches in my legs as I shift in my seat, watching the muscles in my thighs flex and relax as I settle into a more comfortable position. This time of morning, a quiet awakening of the cafe which bridges the empty calm of 7:00 and the bustling rush of 8:15, reminds me of countless mornings alone, opening up shop at the Mangy Moose. For a moment my mind begins to travel back in time, to the creaky wooden staircase down to the dark stone basement of the store, and the way I would descend cautiously, calling out a warning to the ghosts rumored to live in the basement that they had better leave.

But I stop these thoughts, and look out at the room around me.

I am here.

I am present, and it feels really good.

It’s one of my intentions for the year - to be mindful, to be present. It’s a simple concept, being present, living in the moment. Just the other night, during that Monday night yoga practice, Kathleen lost her place in the flow, and laughed as she found it again: “What can I say? I live in the moment.”

That’s the kind of woman I want to be, and the kind of life I want to live.

I don’t want to waste this quiet hour worrying about the work that awaits me across the street, or even about the reason I’m being dropped off for work instead of driving there on my own - my car is in the shop, and I don’t know when it will be ready or how much it will cost.

No, I want to gobble up every moment as it happens and squeeze every bit of joy from it, and laugh if I lose my place or stumble along the way, correcting my course as I go, but never wasting the beautiful moments of the journey because I’m so busy trying to look at the next page of the map.

But if I’m honest with myself, it’s hard for me to do this. I don’t live in the moment. Most of my life has been spent living in other moments. When I was a child I wished I was a teenager. During high school I longed for college. When I got married I wished I could have a do-over. Many times, when work is tough, I’ve wished for Friday - or just for 5:00.

I am a notorious over-analyzer, known for working myself up and fretting and then feeling silly when doom does not strike.

I am rarely present. My mind is the kind that spins, whirling through what has been and what will or might or could be … losing sight of what is.

I’ve wondered if being a writer and being present are even compatible. My mind seeks to create narrative. The innate need to tell stories, including my own, leads me to check out of the present, and many times I find myself miles or months away, following the threads of some story as it unfolds in my head.

As grateful as I am for the gift of storytelling, it isn’t always a blessing to have a mind that works this way. It can become a trap, one I must actively work to avoid. I’ve wasted days of my life spinning worst-case scenarios, worrying about fates that never came to pass. Even the time I’ve spent accurately predicting unpleasant outcomes could have been better spent enjoying the moment, rather than wasting it away fearing the future.

Knowing this about myself has done little to help it. Even though I’ve learned to pretend I’m not constantly spinning and stressing and imagining, I’ve rarely managed to actually stop.

When I began practicing yoga, the idea of savasana was difficult for me. Lie still and clear my mind? Say “no” to the storylines that come knocking on my consciousness? You will sooner convince the earth to quit orbiting.

The first few weeks, I spent the time thinking.

Once, I fell asleep.

But slowly, I began to get it. I began to release not only the tension in my physical body, but the tension in my mind. As the months have passed I’ve learned. I can do it now. The same practice that has shaped my body and deepened my breath has played a part in calming my mind - at least for a few moments of meditation on my mat.

At the same time, I’ve been settling into a true partnership for the first time in my life, learning what it feels like to be loved even at my ugliest moments, and being reassured that regardless of the daily struggles, or my fears about the future (no matter how far-fetched), things will be okay. Knowing that I have a partner strong enough to catch me when I’m weak has helped me begin to calm down, to let go of the idea that I must be in control of everything all the time.

And lately, I’ve felt the strangest sense of peace beginning to infiltrate my life.

Last night, it wrapped me up so completely I couldn’t ignore it. At the end of a long, hard day, I felt myself practically melting into the passenger seat of Matt’s truck as we drove home. I wasn’t worried about my car. I wasn’t worried about work. I wasn’t worried … at all. And better yet, I hadn’t been worried all day.

The feeling was so strange to me that I noticed it immediately and smiled as I recognized it.

Of course, I quickly gave in to my technology addiction and posted a Facebook status about it.

For once, I truly feel present.

Not stressing. Not spinning. Just sitting side by side with my sweetheart, headed home to make dinner. There was nothing I could do about my car, and for once, instead of imagining the many possible outcomes, I set those thoughts aside, and enjoyed the evening.

I don’t know exactly where it came from, and I don’t know how long it will last.

But I know it felt good. Just like it feels this morning, to be here. Sipping this coffee. Holding a pen, writing my hand.

Something is changing, and I feel like after years of spinning threads of narrative into webs of distraction from the present, I may really be learning, one moment at a time, to be present. And when I get off track, I will take a deep breath and remember how good this feels.

This moment. What is.