The Present Moment

You are sitting on a chair. Or standing in the kitchen. Or walking down a street you have walked a hundred times. Your body is there — but you are not. You are in a conversation you will have tomorrow. In a sentence someone said to you yesterday. In a worry that has been circling the same point for weeks. You have lived the last ten minutes without noticing them.

When you listen inward, you often only then notice what the body has been doing in the meantime: your shoulders have crept up almost to your ears. Your jaw is tense, your teeth resting against each other. Your breath is stuck high in the chest and comes only in short, shallow bursts. Your stomach is tight. The root of your tongue presses against your palate. Your body is holding the tension for a life that is not happening — for a yesterday that is gone, and a tomorrow that does not yet exist.