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The Present

Coming out of the woods near the end of a lovely meander through melting snow, sun out, I hear a dog fight up ahead at the bend. I still the dogs, hoping that a short wait will afford us a window: just after the dogs heading up hill and just behind the ones heading down. But no such luck. The first dog drags his master our way. Then, when we step out onto the doggie thoroughfare, there seem to be dogs everywhere, barking and snarling, and I get pulled down the hill like a fool. I relate this mundane scene not to gain sympathy, nor expose myself to the brand of ridicule quietly snickered by the two walkers coming up behind me. It is what it is. I write about it because, just before the fracas ensued, I’d been thinking about living in the present. More specifically: how much lately I have been living in the past and in the future, regretting one and anxious of the other. How such behavior wastes time, that ubiquitous commodity, and saps vital force. Better to walk confidently into the moment, ready for what comes your way. Which is what I did; I walked into then through its comedy of errors. My stiff back a reminder still of the splendiferous occasion.