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I'd like to talk about a moment in time I cherish. It's a memory I have from my early teens. If I had to put a number on it, I'd say the entire moment lasted ten seconds. More than thirty years on, if I settle my mind and concentrate, I can produce the same chemicals in my brain that caused this memory to sear itself into my mind in the first place, sending me tumbling back in time and space to experience the moment again. It's akin to the way a solitary smell can rip us from our reality without our consent. One moment, we're walking down a city street when the smell from a nearby restaurant reaches us. Before our next step, we're seated at our grandmother's kitchen table at age seven in anticipation of a meal we ate there once and never again.
My moment begins with the call of the crows. It was the summertime, and I was spending a week visiting my best friend, doing my best to stay in touch after my family moved away earlier in the year. I was of the age of not having a clue what time it was when I woke up. And it was the sound that hit me first. A murder of crows sending their morning announcements out into the treetops. It struck me to notice I didn't usually hear birds when I woke up during the summer. I guess they get hoarse after noon. This morning, however, I knew it was early. But this didn't bother me. There was a sense of urgency surrounding my time that week. The goal: maximum fun. And knowing the hours had barely ticked over into daybreak caused an immediate wave of excitement and relief to wash over me. There was no time to waste, so step one was avoiding sleeping the day away.
The shot of excitement was chased by an immense sensation of calm, as the breeze from the open window filled the room with fresh cool air. With the window open all night, I'd unconsciously scrunched my blanket up to my nose, optimizing the ratio between the cold and the coziness. I took a deep breath through my nose, eyes still closed, and my mind began to wander about all the things my friend and I might do that day.
The memory ends there. But it doesn't end with a lull. Because when I bring myself back to that time, the lasting symbol in my mind is that of unmitigated freedom. My friend's parents worked, so it was just us. We were too old to need supervision. Too young to need jobs. We had places we could go. Woods to explore. Games to play. Snacks to eat. Friends to meet up with. We could do all of it. Or we could do none of it. And there I lay, listening to those crows, feeling that breeze on my face, and waking up to the realization of just how precious that sensation was. Naive enough to not yet know how hard life can get, but wise enough to know it will get hard. I try not to pine for that moment when I relive it, but swim in all the feelings I felt back then, grateful that I was lucky enough to have one like it.
We shouldn't ruminate on all the traumas, embarrassments, injustices, and pains of our lives. A picked scab never heals. Instead, we should be collecting as many ten-second vignettes as we can along the way. Squirrel them away and guard them with your life. Every once in a while, practice putting yourself back in these moments and see how close you can get to the real thing. You'll be amazed at the joy a little meditative replay can produce.