Today was a mildly fretful day.  Mostly driven by physical niggles, I think, and it’s not worth writing about the specific fretful things, because if it weren’t today’s particular set of things it would have simply been other things.  The state of “fretful” is less about the surrounding circumstances and more about the one who is fretting in the midst of them.

I came home fairly late this evening and headed directly upstairs, to get ready for bed and maybe read a bit after tucking in.  While cleaning face and teeth and finding pajamas, somewhere in the middle of the evening rituals, I found myself fretting a little again, and stopped.  I took a deep breath, and pulled myself back into my own present moment in time and particular place, a habit which I’ve been trying to form — to be really present, to actually inhabit myself in the moment I’m in, and to experience what I am actually living.  Tonight I recalled myself back from the mental fretting-space, and was suddenly aware of this gift: that I am alive, that I get to experience anything at all.  None of us human-types put ourselves here, and how often do any of us think about the magic of that — that we get to be alive, sheerly by grace?  By no choice or doing of our own, we get to live?

I am alive, and I am reminded tonight of how big a gift that is.  I can spend my aliveness in fretting if I want to, but it seems like such a waste.  I think I can do better than that.


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