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My friend Kathryn introduced me to Laura, because she thought Laura’s new book, 168 Hours: You Have More Time Than You Think, and the philosophy it evinces, would be of interest to me. In our very first exchange, Laura wrote: “I think one of the reasons people feel like they have less time than they do is that they aren’t present when they’re doing whatever they’re doing.” And I just nodded and said, well, yes. At least that is true for me.

Laura’s book “is a fun, inspiring, and practical guide that will help men and women of any age, lifestyle, or career get the most out of the time and their lives.” Kathryn is interviewed and profiled in one chapter. I had three immediate reactions to this idea, at least with respect to the issue of presence. The first is that yes, it is absolutely true that careful allotment of our time can result in more time, or at least in the hours rolling out in a more orderly fashion. A correlated observation that I’ve long wanted to write about is that the way we spend our hours really says a lot about what our priorities actually are (more on that another time).

My second reaction to the blurb about Laura’s book is that well, yes, that’s true … but. I’m a very organized person and I have been known to structure my time with ruthless, military precision. My obsession with timeliness can make me humorless, and I certainly struggle to relax and let go of the fourteen other more efficient things I could be doing at any given moment. And yet, despite all of that, it took me a long time and a far more ineffable kind of effort to finally figure out how to be more present in my life.

The third reaction was to hear in my head one of my very favorite quotes. At least daily this scrolls through my consciousness, and I immediately thought of it when I read about Laura’s book:

How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives. (Annie Dillard)

So what’s more important than a thoughtful approach to how we fill our hours, for example the 168 that we get each week? I would posit: nothing. I was thrilled when Laura agreed to be interviewed for Present Tense, and think her answers perfectly conjure the combination of careful, logical planning and inspired, emotional commitment that I believe can add up to a life of really paying attention.

1. When have you felt most present? Are there specific memories that stand out for you?

I try to enjoy moments as often as I can. One of the great things about writing 168 Hours is that it’s forced me to really think about my own time, because enjoying your life is largely a matter of enjoying your hours. I try to build joy into my days: savoring a cup of strawberries, for instance, or since I work out of a home office, sneaking in a quick snuggle with my baby when I’ve got a break. But here’s one that popped into my brain when I read this question. I was in Israel about ten years ago, and riding a bike on a road along the Egyptian border. The sun went down, the moon came up and looked so ghostly on the sand. There is something about riding a bike, pedaling hard, feeling the night wind on your arms, that just forces you to be in the moment. Pure bliss. I think the moment stood out because it seemed so much holier than the Disneyland atmosphere around the actual holy sites I’d also visited on the trip. Perhaps I’d been hoping for some grand religious experience at the site of Jesus’s tomb. The night wind was like a reminder that the divine is all around, that it’s silly hoping for a religious experience at the tomb, because the whole point of the religion is that He isn’t there.

2. Do you have rituals or patterns that you use to remind you to Be Here Now?

Running keeps me firmly in the present tense. While training for a marathon recently, I did weekly speed sessions and long runs (up to 20 miles). By the last lap of an 8×800, or mile 18 of a 20-miler, there is no where your mind can be but where you are. You may wish it to be elsewhere, but somehow your mind keeps coming back to your breath and the rhythmic pounding of your feet. I also keep a journal. I don’t write in it nightly, but I do most days, and recording the days helps cement them in my mind.

3. Do you have specific places or people that you associate with being particularly present? Who? Where? Any idea why?

My apartment balcony is nice for this. When I get the chance – the kids are asleep or I have the house to myself – I like to sit and watch the city 43 floors below. When I’m sitting in my living room, I usually think I should be picking the toys up off the floor. I don’t feel that way when I’m outside, taking in the view.

4. Have you ever meditated? How did that go?

Not as such. Sometimes I repeat certain phrases while running to get through those last miles. Sometimes I count my blessings while waiting for the elevator. I find that’s a good way to use those few minutes.

5. Has having children changed how you think about the effort to be present?

Having children has made me try to appreciate the little happy moments that the universe grants in abundance if you’re willing to pay attention. Small children are obviously a lot of work – work that takes up a lot of our hours – and there are certain moments that no one enjoys. Changing multiple kids’ dirty diapers at the same time comes to mind, or having your own breast milk spat back up on you. But then this morning as I was getting everyone dressed, we started jumping around on my 3-year-old’s bed. He was just wearing a Pull-up and my 8-month-old was just wearing a diaper, so it was all one jumble of baby fat and little limbs and giggles. I try to burn these images into my mind, because I know time keeps passing and they will grow up soon.

6. And just cause I’m curious, what books and songs do you love?

Too many books to mention, but my favorite work of music is Bach’s B-Minor Mass. I’m mildly obsessed with it. I learned it in choir in college, and I continue to be amazed by the absolutely intricate polyphony of the choruses. The Agnus Dei is one of the most amazing alto solos ever written. It is mostly low and hushed, but then the occasional high note pierces through and just compels you to listen – and be present.

*************

Laura, thank you! I love this sentence: “Having children has made me try to appreciate the little happy moments that the universe grants in abundance if you’re willing to pay attention.” Thank you for so elegantly and lucidly saying the very thing I keep stumbling around in this space!!

I relate most powerfully to two of your responses. The first is that running is where you find yourself, eventually, to a place where your mind and your body are one. I agree entirely with this. And you are so right that sometimes I wish my mind could go elsewhere, do the jumping monkey thing it seems to do the whole rest of my life … but at mile seven (I have not done a marathon, thank you very much!) I simply can’t get it to go away from my lungs, my legs, the distance from here to there.

The second is the memory from Israel, and the observation that the spiritual moments are sometimes different than we might have assumed, somehow less obvious, more around the edges. Or simply the recognition that, as you say, the “divine is all around.” Indeed, it is. I don’t think it’s an overstatement to say that the task of my life now is realizing that. And living in accordance with that knowledge.

Thank you, Laura … I can’t wait to read the book. You can learn more about Laura here, about 168 Hours here, and can pre-order it here!

Inspiration-less on a Sunday night … I started this several weeks ago.

Something I want to remember, from these swollen days: that Grace loves my company above all others. On Friday night, after I read some Harry Potter to her, she read alone in her room as she is allowed to do before bed. She bounced into my bedroom minutes before the time I had told her to turn out her light, face lit with delight as she told me about what had happened in the chapters of Ramona the Pest she just read. She paused in her story telling to ask me if I would tuck her in. Of course I did, and as I was doing so she said, “Mummy, I just love talking to you.” I hugged her tight, blinking back tears, knowing that this will not always be true and hoping that I can remember, when it is not, the days that it was.

We are still in the all-encompassing part of parenting where my presence, spiritual and physical, is what she wants. Still in the union of intense togetherness, of my being her sun. I can see over the edge of the horizon, though, that this time will draw to an end, and I am already mourning it.

…………… (and now, now)

Again with the preemptive regret, sorrow’s shadow coloring the moment even before the loss itself has arrived.

Last week we got our hair cut together. Sitting in the chair, she was a teenager, resplendent in her black smock, chatting comfortably with the stylist. When it was my turn, she sat at my feet, drawing an elaborate cartoon story which she showed me after. She has invented her own character, Peace Girl, whose adventures she has begun to chronicle.

At soccer on Saturday morning, Grace kept wiping out, and her knees were covered in green skid marks flecked with blood where she’d actually skinned her knee. She’d race over to me, face contorted in a dramatic mask of pain, and I’d lean over and kiss her knee before shooing her back into the game. That’s all it took. These days, too, are numbered. I know that.

And then, at half time, after her snack, she walked over to me, a sly grin on her face, watermelon juice hanging like parentheses on either side of her mouth. She held out this offering:

I cheered her on the whole game, knowing how her eyes dart to me immediately after she scores, passes, or messes up. It’s as though life doesn’t happen unless I’m there to witness it; I hope I’m arrogant in that impression, but I fear I’m not. All day long, she hollers: “mummy! watch this!” and I do, trying to be patient, failing a lot.

Later, when I twisted my hair up to squeeze the water out of it at the end of my shower, I noticed a soggy dandelion on the floor of the shower. I’d put it behind my ear for the rest of the game and forgotten. My Gracie girl. Skinned knees, lanky, gangly legs, shaky smile, flashes of confidence in a general fog of awkwardness. Harry Potter and the library and please, please, please Mummy pack Oreos in my lunch. She needs me to tie her shoes, she asks for a flashlight to use as a microphone when she dances alone in her room to a new CD of top 40 songs she got as a birthday party favor, she needs to be tucked in and kissed on the forehead before she can sleep.

She is like a person fluent in two languages, whose switching between them can bewilder those listening. She hopscotches between worlds, between phases of development, with a fluid ease whose pattern I cannot discern. She is demanding and loving in equal measure, bilingual as both giver and taker. Her brown eyes flicker with doubt, with feeling, with questions, with emotion, and always, always she looks to me for answers, reassurance, comfort. And the best part? Most of the time, I can still provide it. These are long, heavy, heady times with my Gracie.

I wish these days could last forever.

I think anyone who’s been reading this blog knows how profoundly touched I was by Devotion, Dani Shapiro’s memoir that came out this winter. I was very privileged to meet Dani at a couple of her readings this winter; she is everything in person that you’d imagine from her graceful, honest memoir, and more. Devotion has stayed with me months after I finished it, its lines presenting themselves fully-formed in my head, its lessons growing ever more compelling and wise, its elegant language prompting me always to try to write more carefully, more lucidly. Dani also has two fantastic blogs, both of which I now eagerly follow.

One reason I identified so strongly with Dani from the start is because she is clearly interested in the central issue that preoccupies me now: presence. In both her memoir her blogs she wrestles with questions of how to be more engaged in her life, less distracted, better able to live within the shadow of time’s relentless passage. These are all questions I struggle mightily with, daily, and I have already learned so much from Dani’s writing about them.

You can imagine how elated I was when Dani agreed to participate in Present Tense! There aren’t really superlatives strong enough to describe how my I admire Dani, so I’ll just say she’s both a role model and an unwitting teacher. Thank you.

1. When have you felt most present? Are there specific memories that stand out for you?

It’s my distinct honor today to post an anonymous post here on A Design So Vast. This was written by a friend and I am deeply touched that she trusted me with her story and asked me to share it with all of you. This is part of Five for Ten in that it is about courage, and also represents my post about lust – I share this not only because I respect and admire the writer, but because of my abiding lust for truth.

So, without further ado, the gorgeous and haunting story. In my view this is truth, raw and real, humanity on the page.

Is Anonymity Courageous?

Panic. The kind of panic that grips my lungs, making deep breaths very near impossible. The kind of fear that whips all my innards up in a tizzy. The kind of audible, tympanic panic that simultaneously reverberates throughout, making it near impossible to hear anything other than the beating of the truth.

These emotions ricocheted through my body when I realized I would link up with Momalon’s FiveForTen.

Audacity and verve line the path of she who willingly speaks that which makes her uneasy…no matter how true. It takes courage to step out of the seclusion of my silence, to share my stories, making them equally more truthful and less powerful, less binding, less.

How do you know the intent behind someone’s words? In life, all we really have is our own interpretations. We filter sentiments, ideas, comments and insults through our own personal screen.

So it is no surprise that I filter my father through my own experience. I have, shall we say, a unique non-existence with my father. He no longer holds a place in my life (well, no physical place in my life). I ended our relationship more than 15 years ago because I tired of his bullshit. I said goodbye. Goodbye to the negativity, goodbye to the pain and so long to the selfishness. So goodbye I said. I had to protect the buoyant part of my soul from his damning, suffocating shit. Because he danced with his demons, I, too, tangoed with them. I allowed his comments and critiques to derail my confidence. As a result, it nose-dived, leaving me questioning, empty and unworthy. I believed I was dumb, ugly and awkward.

Some (maybe many) judged my decision—some quietly, some openly. But the most boisterous critic was my own psyche—sending up smoke signals of remorse and betrayal. “What kind of person removes her father from her own life?”

Me.

Why I loved him:
Smart
Did what he said he was going to do
Took me to sports events
He loved me

I don’t have many memories from my life. Most of what I “remember” is from other’s shared recollections. I wish I had more of my own little house of moments I could pull from. But I don’t. And unfortunately, because I found myself constantly defending my decision to extradite my father to myself, I needed to rationalize his horrible-ness to validate my choice. Therefore, the hate list flows very quickly from my pen:

He, with one sentence, forced me to question my innocent safety in his presence. He told me that I learned of sexual politics at the age of three, from him. He also asked me if I thought he molested me when I was young. Oh, the twisted web we weave—whether he did or not, I’ve always questioned and wondered. I wonder when he may have touched me, fulfilling some sick pleasure, puncturing my soul, while driven by his own, twisted past. Others in family wonder if he was molested as a child. Through the years, I’ve concluded that indeed, he was. And that his cruel fate crafted my own.

He never paid child support after he and my mom divorced.
His rank, stale aura stank of beer and sweat. The smell in his bedroom in the morning made me gag.
He leered at my developing body, forcing me to take cover.
Instead of celebrating my successes, he chose jealousy as his response.
He disrespected my wishes, hopes and dreams.
My children and husband do not know him because he is unstable and likes guns.
He could kill me. He could kill my children. I doubt he’d kill my husband because, well, because he’s a man.

My mother thinks he hated women. In retrospect, I think she’s right. Everything was A. OK. when I was a sweet little girl. But when I threw boobs, hips and body hair into the mix, all bets were off. Maybe the physical signals of my development alerted alarms in his sick mind…alarms that indicated my power and ability—and highlighted his inadequacies.

Family members so feared my father’s unstable condition that they thwarted his descent with an emotional barricade, littered with power plays and emotional negotiations.
In a recent conversation with my mom, she remembered that call from a family member, the one when they alerted her to keep her ex-husband away from me. She acted swiftly. She took precautions to attempt to protect me, my brother and herself. She talked with her place of employment, and my brother’s school, warning that my father may come do something horrible. She had to do this because my father is intelligent, sick and an expert marksman. My mother, with fear white-knuckle gripping her heart, knew that if he so chose, he could kill us all.

So, this is why hate trumps any traces of love I had for this man, my father. Ironically, he brought me into the world—and my greatest fear is that he will take me out.

My threatened safety submerges into the depths of my subconscious and then resurfaces, gasping and sputtering as if I were trying to drown it. I think I forget so I can live peacefully, not always looking over my shoulder. But when the force of my fear returns, my reflex is to quiet my voice and retreat.

This story might be the equivalent of a red flag for my bullish father; if I felt it safe to share this story and credit myself for my enormous successes despite the damning emotional baggage, I would. Although I do not link my name with my story, and although I share through a shroud of anonymity, my spirit and courage mobilize. Through many achy years, riddled with depression and self-doubt, I’ve emerged. I now proudly define myself and do not allow (ok, try vehemently not to allow) past events to define. I give validity and energy to those areas which I want to thrive. I share my story openly with friends and family.

I’ve finally arrived at a place of peace…and almost one of forgiveness. I’ve got time…and courage.

Happiness is so large and unwieldy a topic that I confess I felt daunted.

So I decided to approach it from the other end, focusing on the tiny details instead of the big picture.

Here are some things that never fail to make me happy:

(see left for illustration of me, happy)

• Starbucks venti nonfat latte with 2 splendas
• Colin Hay “Waiting for my Real Life to Begin,” Death Cab for Cutie “A Lack of Color,” Ben Folds “The Luckiest,” Ben Harper, and the Up in the Air soundtrack
• Oyster Bay sauvignon blanc on the rocks in my stemless wineglasses
• Clean sheets on my bed
• My annual Christmas movie alone
• Doing backdives off the edge of my parents’ boat
• My sleeping children
• My iPhone
• Holiday cards
• The sound of halyards snapping against masts
• Stationery and fountain pens
• The smell of laundry
• Jack Rogers sandals
• My photo printer
• Poetry by Mary Oliver, Jane Kenyon, Sharon Olds, Adrienne Rich, Anne Sexton
• Red licorice
• Classics: Gatsby, the Sun Also Rises, Crossing to Safety
• My leather and gold/silver bracelet that I never take off
• A cross-country flight solo
• Mark Rothko’s color fields paintings