In the moment

The last two days at work were incredibly slow and I had the opportunity to write and read. The first day when it was slow I reread and started writing again on Curador. Then I ordered a book called 'The care and the feeding of the girls in the basement', by Barbara Samuel one of my favorite authors. The last chapter was about being present and this I can identify very well with as it is one of the FISH Philosophys. In this chapter she talked about being present and in the moment and by doing it with a writing exercise called 'in the moment' that you write once a day.

And this morning as I was courting the man I love with words, because writing is so much easier for me, I used that..."So this is my note for the moment." Telling him something about myself that I have never shared before with him. Then ran to the bathroom to shower and had a second AHA moment for the day while putting on lotion, so ran to my journal and wrote that down and then also thought yeah when I can't think of something to say to him... in the moment is good to use to just share with him.

Now the first AHA moment came about, after fighting those nasty little self doubt demons and then a phone conversation with my sister about identifying my behavior together and why I do what I do and need to stop.


An excerpt from Barbara Samuel's book.

“In the moment … ” By describing exactly what was happening in any given moment, the writer was free to just observe her environment and emotions without judging either her words or her world. I’m a life-long journaler, but I’d not used that phrase in my own ramblings. It proved so effective for my students, however, that I decided to try it while on a hiking trip to France. I thought it would help me remember things better.

In the moment … August, Paris, 7:30 pm I am sitting in the window of my little hotel room in the 12 Arrondissement of Paris. Fourth floor, with windows that open like French doors to the street far below—I am completely free, if I wish, to throw myself to my death, and I love having nothing between me and the world beyond except a little grate. The view is not particularly inspiring. I’m overlooking a tiny alley, and across the way is an unbeautiful gray building. But it has apartments, and I’ve spent the last hour, blearily jet-lagged but unwilling to sleep, drinking red wine from a plastic cup (it has a tiny leak, so I’ve wrapped it in tissue), smoking cigarettes, admiring the snippets of lives I can see. Red geraniums in clay pots are lined up on the outside of one window, bottles of some sort at another. Directly across the way, even with my view, is an apartment with the windows open and I can hear an Arabic family at dinner. If I spoke the language, I could eavesdrop on their conversation quite easily. Perched on their open window is a tricycle, almost poised for riding, right off the roof to the street forty feet below.