Can't see the flower for the hills --

[Linking up to Macro Friday and Show Off Your Shot]

Sometimes it feels as if we wish our whole lives away --  when I'm older, when I get to high school/college, when I move away from home, get married, have children, buy a house, lose that weight, get my bills paid off . . . with all these pressing things or highly anticipated moments in life, it's hard to live in the moment, hard to look around and appreciate what you have right now, today.  

It's then that I feel like the little bug who rode home with me in a bouquet of dahlias last September -- all I can see is one hill after another in front of me; I can't see that every hill is part of a beautiful flower that is the context for the journey I'm on in this life.  (I also can't see that even though I'm a bug, I'm kind of cute, but that's material for another post.)

There's a nice article in Psychology Today on "The Art of Now:  Six Steps to Living in the Moment."  The author, Jay Dixit, has a lot of good advice about becoming more mindful, about controlling our thoughts rather than allowing them to control us.  People who live more in the moment, who are aware that the hills are part of the flower, are happier, more secure, have higher self-esteem, and so on.  They are not always catastrophizing about the future (my bad habit) or rehashing awful things from the past (which I often do, too).  

Right now I'm thinking about retirement, which will occur in one year, three months and one day (but who's counting?), fantasizing about how nice life will be when that happens, how happy I will be to not have a 150-mile commute (round-trip) any more, all the great things I'll do once I have time to do them, on and on.  And worrying -- will the money be enough?   What in the world am I going to do with the 25 years' worth of stuff in my office?  What if I'm lonely for all my dear colleagues?  And on and on with that, too -- 

For today, I want to work on enjoying my life now, this moment, Friday, April 8th, 2011.  I'll take pleasure in the fact that my Loved One's surgery means I'm spending more time with him, quiet time around the house, enjoying the lilacs that are just about ready to photograph, making something nice for dinner . . . and appreciating everything I have.   It's all good.