My wife and I were talking last night, about our favorite getaway.

From the mid-eighties, until my oldest son started school, we spent anywhere from two to four weeks each year, lazing in the Florida Keys.

Reading. Swimming. Talking.

Being.

It was that sense of just being, we both realized, that we each missed the most.

Looking out at the water. Lounging on the balcony. Having to be no where, except where you were, right then.

Being.

I distinctly remember one afternoon, peering over the Florida Bay, and having the crystal clear thought, that, if I were to die – right there, right then – it would be perfectly OK.

Because I was in Heaven.

Being.

Nowadays, I’ve very much lost that sense of serenity altogether. I had it, once. Where it went – I haven’t a clue.

Is it the worries of being a husband and father, or realizing that I won’t live forever, or the prospect of possibly never being able to retire – at least, that is, until lunchtime the day of my funeral?

I don’t know.

Only: it’s been quite a while, since I simply sat. Emptied my mind.

Being.

It’s not a total loss, I guess. Viscerally – I know it’s possible. I have lived it before.

It doesn’t make the longing for its loss any less, or its attainment, any closer.

 

I find I’m working harder now, than I did twenty years ago. Or, maybe in order to do the same things I did twenty years ago, it simply takes more of me, with seemingly less of me, to go around.

I don’t know.

But, I do know, I am more attentive. I am more intentional. And, I am more present.

I’m really trying, to simply: Be.

That, itself, might be my ultimate problem.

Trying, instead of just…

Being.