Notes from my journal:
I’ve noticed something about myself, and I’m not sure it’s a healthy habit.
I’m always looking forward to the next thing.
The next trip.
The next project.
The next chapter.
The next adventure.
And then, almost as soon as I arrive, I start looking forward, or should I say worrying about what comes after that.
I don’t spend nearly enough time enjoying the thing I’m actually in.
Every now and then I get the incredible gift of staying at a friend’s apartment in Marina del Rey while she’s traveling. She’s often gone for months at a time and offer me her place while she’s gone. Last year and the year before I went for several weeks, but now that I have a job, that’s not possible.
But back to my stays. The minute I pull into the neighborhood, (my old neighborhood) I can feel my shoulders drop. The ocean breeze. The palm trees. Morning walks along the marina. Coffee on the balcony or sitting in the sand. The slower pace. It’s one of my favorite places to be.
For the first day or two, I’m blissfully happy.
Then something strange happens.
Instead of soaking in the days I still have left, I start counting the ones I have left.
Four more mornings.
Three more sunsets.
Only two days.
By the last few days, I’m already sad because I know I’ll have to leave.
Think about how ridiculous that is.
I’m standing in a place I love, on a beautiful California afternoon, and instead of appreciating where I am, I’m grieving where I’m going. (Anywhere else!)
I’ve stolen today’s joy by borrowing tomorrow’s sadness.
I’ve done this more times than I care to admit.
The truth is, looking forward isn’t a bad thing. Hope is important. Goals matter. Dreams give us direction. At this stage of life, I think it’s essential to have something on the calendar that excites you.
But somewhere along the way, I confused preparing for the future with living in it.
The future deserves some planning. It doesn’t deserve all of my attention.
This summer has reminded me of that in ways I wish it hadn’t. I’ve watched several people, still in the prime of their lives, die suddenly and unexpectedly. They had plans. Vacations booked. Birthdays coming. Retirement dreams. Things they were looking forward to.
Tomorrow simply never arrived.
Every one of those losses has reminded me that waking up this morning was never guaranteed.
Today is.
Right now, is.
As I write this, it is a beautiful day. Sunny. Warm, but not hot. No humidity. Not a cloud in the sky. The kind of weather that makes you want to stay outside just a little longer. (If only I didn’t have to be at my desk in two hours trying to decipher someone’s attempt at bookkeeping!)
Living on the East Coast, I know days like this don’t come around nearly as often. But, as usual, I am thinking about later, instead of right now. Right now, I’m sitting outside a coffee shop, and the weather is perfect, and I have a whole hour and a half to enjoy this. Instead, I’m thinking about 11am, when it ends!
Why am I borrowing disappointment from the future when joy is sitting right in front of me right now?
Maybe that’s the lesson I’m still trying to learn in my Third Act.
We spend so much of our lives chasing the next milestone that we forget today’s ordinary moments are the ones we’ll eventually miss.
The future is a possibility.
Today is a gift.
I’m still going to make plans. I’m still going to dream about what’s next. That’s part of who I am. But I’m also trying to remember to look inward as often as I look forward.
To notice the sunshine.
To appreciate the conversation I’m having instead of worrying about the goodbye.
To enjoy the place I’m standing before thinking about the place I’m leaving.
Because this moment—this ordinary, beautiful, imperfect moment is the only one I actually own.
Third Act Truth
The future is something to hope for, but today is something to live. Don’t miss the life you’re waiting to enjoy.