Pea Soup

Each of us, every one, will get a certain number of days. That lifespan and the truth behind the somewhat pithy axiom that all our days are numbered, leaves us with the logical takeaway that, this being the case, it would be in our general best interests, to act as if tomorrow might be the last. Predestined, or elongated by lifestyle choices refined into high-quality habits, and regardless of one’s choice of creation stories, it seems to me that this mathematical absolute would convince even the most stubborn denier, that EVERY DAY IS PRECIOUS. 

There are, according to our management systems, 24 hours in every day, creating 1,440 minutes. What would happen, I wonder aloud, if I was to create a template, a schedule, a routine designed to honor the above shouted premise? If, indeed, those 1,440 minutes contain the micro-eternity we are compelled to observe as sacred, that would leave little time for anything else not of sufficient value to warrant consideration on this ethereal plateau of awareness. Read a dime-store romance? No time, sorry. Watch a sci-fi thriller? No. Take another stab at getting to the next level on that video game all my friends are raving about? Nope. Distract myself through disassociation and distraction? Numb the pain? Perfect my denial strategy? Run and hide? Develop another excuse with plausible deniability and a bullet-proof alibi? Project my frustrations, anxiousness and racism upon others as a way to feel power of any kind whatsoever? Hardly.

I keep the faith. I put my hope into today. I practice the sometimes seemingly impossible task of paying homage to the present moment. There is the answer all wrapped up in knowing the now. The moment knows. The wisdom, and the answer, sometimes takes every one of those 1,440 minutes to manifest as a solution. Often a series of minutes, days and eventually months, years and lifetimes. One at a time. 

Today is one of the ‘not-so-good’ days for me. I woke, again, in the middle of another atrial fibrillation episode. This one is a whopper, like the difference between a goldfish and a tiger shark. The intermittent flow of oxygenated blood to my poor brain is causing some interesting effects. Short term memory loss, lack of spatio-temporal awareness, severe stomach issues and the general malaise known, so adorably, as brain fog. I always say when asked about my current state, pea soup (further adding to the evidence as symptom syndrome), something I find paradoxically hysterical, that my brain fog is as think as pea soup. Kind of a 'Who’s on First?’ variation. 

I know that to walk out of the fog I must control my breathing, relax completely and let the pacer do its thing. Technically, what happens is that when I meditate into a heart rate of 70 bpm the pacer sends a small electrical memo to the atria asking for regularity, consistency, moderation and sinus rhythm, you know a regular heart beat. Which in turn would provide the proper mix of air, blood, nutrients and chemicals to properly spice up the soup. 

That is the now. I am here. And while grateful to have the opportunity to practice my commitment to each of eternity’s gifts, sometimes I wish a day or two could pass without another bowl of that green soup.