That’s harder than it sounds. I try to be fully alive in every moment, and I’ve had some peak experiences: meditating on Hauyna Picchu and playing my violin at sunset on the walls of Carcassonne. Those extraordinary moments couldn’t be duplicated at home. So what could I do today?
I pondered the question as I took a walk. In my own yard, setting out, I cherished the purple irises that my mother planted, the solitary bluebonnet, coreopsis, spiderwort in various shades of lavender and orchid. As I walked, I added wild grasses, with their nodding seed heads; Indian paintbrush; and the fresh green of new foliage to the list. I reveled in the cool breeze, hid from it when it grew too strong.
The cardinal’s call pierced me through while the white-winged dove’s sound soothed. Blue jays, mockingbirds, an occasional hawk, unseen but voicing their presence.
What one extraordinary thing could I do this day to feel utterly alive?
I pulled a patch of weeds in my yard, relishing the moment when the roots relinquished their hold on the earth. I watched as a blue jay hunted for food, swiped his beak on a branch, shook his tail feathers and looked at me through a bandit’s mask. I sat on the porch in the mild afternoon, dark chocolate melting down my throat, marveling at the depth of blue of the sky. I laughed when my little tabby let loose her wildcat growl and smiled as she purred when I brushed her.
What makes me feel fully alive? Being in the creative flow, which I haven’t been in several years. I haven’t blogged in those years, either, so maybe what I’m doing right now is a start.
I mixed up a batch of muffins with all the care and healthful ingredients I could muster and took some to my handyman neighbor, who’s always fixing things for me. For supper, I savored delicately broiled salmon.
I never arrived at one thing would make me feel fully alive. It was a thoroughly ordinary day, filled with extraordinary moments.