Savor the Days

“Hard to believe it’s been six months since I’ve seen you,” said Dr. Palmer, as he rummaged around in my right eye.  “Hmmmn. Happy with what I see here,” he adds.

Dr. Palmer is the ophthalmological surgeon who repaired my ruptured retina eight months ago.  He saved my sight, and my trip to Japan.  Needless to say, I’m happy too.

"Yes," I respond, as the rummaging continues.  "It seems like time goes faster and faster as we age."

On the September afternoon when he wedged me into an already slammed schedule to do emergency surgery, Dr.  Palmer was professional, remote, cool even.  Now we chit chat. About travel. Raising kids. Advances in the field.  People we know in common. Some of my old Stanford colleagues are people he trained with.

Now, apparently, Dr. Palmer is going to offer a lesson on something else: how to freeze time.

“I have a theory about that,” he says.  “I think you can slow down time by traveling.  Or by learning.”   I ask what he means.  

“I think when our brains encounter something new and different to deal with, it expands things. Slows down the march of time.”

I think about this and realize he’s right.  Every morning, I meditate, practice gratitude, light candles for people who need my care, and set intentions.  And it’s great.  It about living each day to its highest, best purpose.

But that’s a routine, too, isn’t it? Its own recipe for a blur of sameness? If we can somehow interrupt the forgettable blur of routine, it stimulates something. More impressions. More memories. More noticing. More space. More. . . time.  And as I get older, boy do I want more of that. 

So, here’s my intention for this month.   I am going to savor each and every day of August. 

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I will eat watermelon, white peaches and strawberry ice cream. I will watch the wind dance in the tops of the eucalyptus trees.  I will swim every day, glorying in the feel of cool water on my skin.  I will get to the beach every week.  I will walk Chloe in the hush of dawn, before most of the world is awake. In the lavender evenings when the mourning doves call, I will walk again.  I will spend serious time in the redwoods. I will make a spiritual practice of my favorite household chore --- skimming the pool.

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I will stop at every lemonade stand I see and interact with the young entrepreneurs.  I will linger at the reservoir, watching the massive cloud waves spill over the top of the mountains.  I will party with the naked ladies—those extravagant pink flowers that sit atop their leaveless stalks (thus their name) and celebrate their appearance along the roadsides this time of year.  I will sit by my lit swimming pool at night, drinking in the cool cerulean rectangle. I will choose my bike over my car.  I will ramble the dun-colored, oak-studded California hills, and think of lions basking in the sun.  I will stop my car at farm stands, whether I need anything or not. I will give thanks for every cool breeze. 

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I will savor every moment with family and friends. I will cheer on the Valks. I will sip a drink at the Top of the Mark, and marvel over 46 years of marriage.  I will give thanks for the people I still have, and for those who now reside in a special chamber of my heart. 

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This list isn’t about traveling or learning, exactly. It’s more about noticing and savoring.  They don’t fit neatly into Dr. Palmer’s theory.  But in noticing, and savoring, don’t we travel to new places, and create something new?