Observing Life: What it means to live in the present

Listen. Do you hear that? It’s the sound of your life whizzing by. It’s the sound of your daughters giggling, of your son digging in the garden, of your mum’s best advice echoing over your shoulder when you need it most.

I can hear life’s noise, but lately I’ve only been listening to the honking horns, not the hummingbirds. I’m in a rut where I’ve either been living in the future, waiting to cross some imaginary finish line, or focused on the past, longing for what I’ve left behind.

Being truly present in your life seems to go against human nature. We’re always going on about what we’re doing next weekend, where our next holiday will be or what we’ll be doing over the summer. Then summer comes and our conversations shift to something else in the future.

I try to live in the present, but I’ve discovered I’m very much a “can’t-wait-to-get-to-the-next-moment” person. It’s not that I don’t appreciate what I have – I just don’t take time to be fully present in it.

In desperate need of a reboot, I recently took a holiday with my daughters. We travelled to my small hometown in rural New York, where I spent two weeks listening to my life. I started with my daughters. They’re older and so different than when we moved to Abu Dhabi two years ago. Instead of barking orders at them and losing my patience, I tried to really listen.

In the mornings, I stayed in bed longer than usual and learnt that the chance of lions and tigers entering the bedroom at night is a very real possibility to a 3-year-old. It’s why she keeps the door closed at night. I didn’t know the reason until then.

I saw fierce curiosity in my 6-year-old when she discovered a half-decomposed deer under the snow in the front garden. That led to conversations about life and death. On a long drive through the countryside, she asked: “What’s a soul?” I didn’t answer. Then she said: “When people die, I believe they go into the clouds. Angels come down and bring them there. Then they have to work hard so they can be angels, too. Some people get buried in the ground. Snails and ants and worms take care of them.”

“How?” I asked.

“They nibble on their skin,” she said. “Then some of them become zombies. Angels keep the bad ones from coming up.”

At that moment, I wanted her ability to live in the present. She was swept up in the wonder of the world, one that had big questions.

Listening – and really paying attention – allowed me to enjoy details I hadn’t noticed before. I saw the way my mum’s eyes shine a bit brighter when her grandchildren enter the room. I saw her childlike excitement when buying a new pair of shoes. I noticed she’s more at ease, having retired from her job two weeks prior.

Years ago, my mum wrote in my high-school yearbook: “Remember, life is a journey, not a destination.” It’s a motto I need to be reminded of.

I don’t want to miss the journey while racing to the future. How many conversations about lions and tigers, about life and death, have I already missed out on?

Better for me, for all of us, maybe, to stop and listen.