I think part of growing up – a painful part – is coming to truly realize that nothing lasts forever. I don’t mean this in the intellectual sense, in that you know you will get older, you will live in different places, change jobs, meet new people, etc. That understanding comes rather easily as one observes things change over time or even with a simple study of history; it’s theoretical and resides in your brain. I am rather referring to a true integration into the self of a realization, involving all the senses, in which you know in the midst of an experience that it is a moment you will never have again. Without having to stop and think it through, your mind instantly comprehends the fleeting nature of the moment and that you must savor every aspect of it before it passes. This kind of insight is harder to acquire and seems to come only after experiencing a great loss which shakes you to your core. Maybe in realizing that you didn’t fully appreciate what you had, your brain learns to identify these situations earlier so that you can live in the moment and enjoy people and experiences while they last.
I was thinking about this last week as I had one of those moments that I wanted to hold onto forever. I ached for the ability to freeze time and make it last at least a little longer. The occasion was a trip to Jost van Dyke with “my boys.” I am blessed to have in my life four guys who all worked at Duffy’s and who simultaneously play the roles of friends, brothers, fathers, and sons. They look out for me and they say that I take care of them, often referring to me as “mom.” This is the first time I got to go to Jost with all four of them, and the occasion for the trip unfortunately is that one of them (Brad) is leaving the island for an indefinite period of time. And Kevin will leave for the off-season shortly thereafter. We enjoyed a fabulous day at Jost, which is really the only kind of day Jost offers. The weather was gorgeous, sunny with a pleasant breeze. The water was its typical clear blue. The hammocks as always were inviting us to rest a while. It’s a time of pure companionship and no worries.
Leaving Jost always turns us into children and we come dangerously close to throwing a tantrum, putting on our frowny faces and pouting about how we want to stay. Todd was the bearer of bad news on this particular day, telling Kevin and I as we rested in a hammock that it was time to get back on the boat to go home. We searched our minds for any possible way that we could stay, and decided it was useless. Kevin kissed my forehead, assured both of us we would be back, and we climbed out of the hammock. On the boat ride back to St Thomas, looking at my four boys with the sun setting around us is when it hit me that I can never have this very moment again. My brain instantly calculated all the ways, tangible and intangible, that things will be changing soon and a gloom fell over me. I grabbed my camera, took a picture of them, and then had someone take a picture of us all. Then I hugged the stuffing out of each of them, returned to my seat, and quietly let the moment pass, as it must.
Ignorance may be bliss, as awareness of the fleeting nature of these joys in life can bring a deep sadness. But I suppose we must ultimately consider such recognition a blessing because it forces us to truly live in the moment. And that must be good, if only so you can squeeze that friend a little tighter, close your eyes and take a mental snapshot, and quietly give thanks that you will have this memory to comfort you in times ahead.
