The Present, a present

What more, you may ask, do we want? Ah, but we want so much more – something the books on aesthetics take little notice of. But the poets … know all about it. We do not want merely to see beauty, though, God knows, even that is bounty enough. We want something else which can hardly be put into words – to be united with the beauty we see, to pass into it, to receive it into ourselves, to bathe in it, to become part of it.     C.S. Lewis

I didn’t know.

I mean, I hoped.

But I haven’t known

Such moments of sweetness as these.

Chased them, sure,

Through drug induced time avoiding/sucking stupors

Or any other myriad number of attempts at distraction

– Definitely not the same –

And certainly not of the nourishing variety.

Manufactured replicas

And always cut short by real life’s sobriety

– An annoyance to be avoided in such seasons –

Impossible to maintain

Leaving me not just hungry

But interminably insatiable and


But here,

Watching these children

Fully present in this moment

– Not ones next –

– Not ones past –

The fullness of time occurs to me

Wraps me up as in a warm and comfy blanket

Presenting itself as a friend

Instead of a dictator

Or commodity needing managed or maximized

In the absence of childlikeness

Time’s static

An extra

– and depending on the level of abuse –

Little more than

An ever dangling and elusive carrot

But here

In this moment

There is real, savor-able, life-filled sweetness

Which means that

That hope did not in fact disappoint

It’s not only possible

It’s here and it’s good

This is what I hoped time would be like.

Rich. Full. Real.

Free of (self-imposed) demands


Or expectations

Time’s a friend

The present…

A present.



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