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Where does this desire not to be "here", "now", come from? How is it that we can live week to week, month to month, year to year, always yearning for some other day or situation to arrive? A good bit of this tendency no doubt comes from our environment. We grow up hearing our parents, relatives, and friends bemoaning their circumstances. We get sent to school where we come to feel that homework is a chore and that looking forward to Friday and the weekend is a normal emotional state. To resist these attitudes is to risk alienation from a vital circle of society. The path of least resistance is to go along with it, adopt the outlook, and mimic acceptable catch-phrases, such as, "Thank God it's Friday!" Well before the weekend is over, it hits us - Monday is coming! Soon, whatever joy we may have been experiencing gets overshadowed by the dread we've learned to affect from those we love. By the time we join the working world, it is almost a competition, at the coffee break, to be the first one to exclaim, "I hate Mondays!"
But not all of the blame can be laid at the feet of our acquaintances and institutions. Some of us take the ball and run considerably farther. We learn that we can distinguish ourselves by the thought and creativity we pour into our expressions of elation or vehemence over the periods of time approaching in the near future. There's a cost to doing this, however, and that cost adds up. Expressing ourselves in these ways tends to define us, in the minds of those we spend time with as "John, the guy who loves Fridays" or "Maria, the girl who hates Mondays". And, having trained others to see us in those ways, we tend to then reinforce that image as part of our own search for meaning and belonging. We can be counted on to say or create or share ever-cleverer expressions of ourselves as people who somehow get by in life based on the promise of a better day to come - like the caption on the photo of the zebra. In time, we believe this definition ourselves.
You have undoubtedly asked yourself some form of the age-old question, "If I could go back in time to a specific point in my life, which one would I choose to make it all turn out differently?" The mind loves contemplating hypotheticals like this. And yet, the joke is on whoever asks that question because doing so virtually guarantees you will ask it again in the future and come up with: the current period in your life. Why is that? Because to contemplate it at all is a form of escape that steals your focus away from the present moment. It robs you of the presence of mind required to soberly assess whether your current situation and activity are steering you toward the kind of life you would rather live. And just now we have gotten to the heart of the matter. Escape. Somehow, many of us have bought the message that we're just supposed to press forward in a life filled with circumstances and situations we never would have chosen if we had known better the first time around. Contemplating all of the disruption and energy it would take to press the "Reset" button, face the stark, naked unknown, and escape the gravity of expectations from all the loved ones we've trained to accept us in our default form just seems so... daunting. So we take our minds off of the subject. We distract ourselves with gadgets, amuse ourselves with content, numb ourselves with substances, and press on. No wonder Thoreau made the observation (still true today), "The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation." Living such a life is unpleasant, so we find ways to not notice that it's happening - chiefly in the form of occupying our thoughts about the past or the future.
I have come to believe that the attitude one has toward life is the most precious mental commodity he or she possesses. More valuable - by far - than a sharp wit or a quick memory. Intellect and recall will always serve to the best of their ability. But the thing that they serve - the one who calls the shots - is your attitude. The good news is, unlike your other mental faculties, attitude can be changed. And yet, how rare it is to meet someone who actively works to improve his or her attitude toward life in adulthood! I heard someone once define "personality" as "the set of social strategies for survival you came up with in Middle School." Are you the Joker in your group? The leader? The cynic, the quiet one, the critic, the facilitator? When was the last time you examined the fundamental building blocks of how you respond to life and asked the question, "Does this way of expressing myself really serve me anymore?" If the answer is, "Longer than a year", I suggest it's time to get your journal out, jot the question down, and let it work its magic. You'd be amazed at what you come up with when you take yourself seriously enough to call yourself on your own assumptions and allow what is really important to come up to the surface.
A surprising and delightful benefit of learning to focus in on the present moment is that life seems to slow down considerably. A lot of the mental chatter you needed to sustain in order to distract yourself from your former sense of drudgery just melts away. The daily commute is no longer an unpleasant necessity for getting from point A to point B. Instead, it becomes a fascinating adventure that's new each day. You stop avoiding "certain people" and take on the outlook that you're going to deal with them as if you were meeting them for the very first time. You give that restaurant another try, even though they messed up your order once upon a time. And so on. Perhaps some of this sounds far-fetched or even naive. People who have invested their lives in cleverly pointing out snarky angles and flaws in every situation might make fun of you. Friends who've known you for years might wonder what the hell has gotten into you. I guess there are trade-offs for every path one may take. But for me, the price has been worth it.
I get on the elevator at work. A co-worker I've never seen before exclaims, "Thank God, it's Friday!" The door opens at my floor and I reply, "Oh yeah - Friday is one of my favorite days of the week!" I step out of the car then I turn and add, "Just like Monday." The look on his face as the door closes: Priceless.
