All We Have Is Now

If we fear death, why do we live for the future and not the present? One would think valuing this moment would make for the most fulfilling existence possible, but I constantly hear, "I'll travel when I'm older and more financially secure, find something I can make a living doing that I genuinely enjoy, spend time with my dearest friends and loved ones when I have more time off, find the lover who ignites my most passionate self and holds the flame steady, have kids later."

It has become customary for people to put their lives on hold and be what they think is responsible, complain about the banality of such existence and wait until time has run out to really start living. Bitching about one's circumstances, while cathartic, creates an ambiance of melancholy, which is rather lonely and, at best, pacified. The person who plods practically through days, weeks, months and years may as well abandon their fear of death, because however unsuspected, death has already come.

Last night, I saw the grim one creeping into my consciousness in the form of another evening numbing my already underused gray matter with Maya's bedtime routine (however important, giving my daughter dinner -- half of which ends up on and around her, a bath, a bedtime story and sitting patiently while she decides when she will succumb to slumber is less than scintillating), semi-interesting reality television and cleaning the kitchen carnage from dinner. In favour of giving myself and my soul a little special attention, I left putting the house to bed in the capable hands of my husband and treated myself to a big glass of wine and a movie, for which I knew he wouldn't care and I was certain I would adore.

For two whole hours, tucked away into the bowels of the Princess Theatre, I immersed myself in Woody Allen's latest fantastical, engaging neurosis, the theme of which is living in the present. Midnight in Paris features Owen Wilson as Gil, a confused writer, whose obsession with the 1920's keeps him wishing he could live in what he feels was a time intellectually and culturally richer than now; he becomes so consumed with the place in time in which he longs to be, he ignores his own life and what it has become -- one of emptiness -- in environment, career and relationships.

Sometimes I feel displaced, not in historical period, but on the path I have chosen. I often fear not doing, being, engaging enough of what I have and potentially have at my disposal -- which really, is everything. As B would remind me, "It's never too late." He might also kindly suggest to kick my ass into gear and save silly things like sleep for when I'm dead -- infinite wisdom.