Stop Wanting Moments To Be Over

The Art of Sacred Presence

"Don't waste this moment by wanting it to be over."

These words hit me like lightning during a particularly challenging yoga pose. We were all locked in a deep hip stretch—the kind that makes your muscles scream and your mind race toward escape routes—when my instructor offered this gentle wisdom.

I froze, not from the physical discomfort, but from the sudden recognition of what I was doing. I was literally throwing the moment away like garbage, desperate for it to end. My mind had already fled the scene, planning my post-class errands, debating lunch options, anywhere but here, in this precise moment that would never come again.

How many moments do we actually have in this lifetime?

We have absolutely no idea. We enter through one door and eventually exit through another, but the space between? That's the mystery we're living right now.

The Epidemic of Absence

We live in an age of perpetual distraction.

Our phones buzz with notifications every few minutes. We eat while scrolling, walk while texting, and have conversations while mentally composing emails. We've become masters at being anywhere but where we are.

Sure, we carve out specific times to "be present"—perhaps, our morning meditation, our evening gratitude practice. But what about the other hours of our day?

What about the moments of washing dishes, waiting in line, sitting in traffic, and having difficult conversations?

These seemingly ordinary moments are actually invitations to presence, but we keep declining the invitation.

Instead of honoring the gift of time, we treat most of our moments like inconveniences to endure rather than experiences to treasure.

The Mental Photograph That Changed Everything

I learned the power of conscious presence many years ago, though I didn't fully understand it at the time.

My daughter was maybe three years old. We were living in a rented half-house in Venice, California, with a patch of grass so small you could practically mow it with scissors.

I was lying on that tiny lawn, watching her with complete absorption. She sat cross-legged, studying individual grass blades with the focused wonder that only children possess.

In that moment, she was the most beautiful thing I had ever witnessed. Her blonde curls caught the afternoon light, her white cotton top bright against the green. I could see the red house behind her, the fence I was constantly repairing, the empty lot across the courtyard where neighborhood kids played.

But it was her complete absorption in that single blade of grass that stopped time for me.

I wanted the moment to last forever, so I made a conscious choice: I would take a mental photograph, not with a camera, but with my heart and mind fully engaged.

Years later, I can still see every detail. The way her hair moved in the breeze. The concentration on her small face. The exact quality of that California light.

That was the first time I realized I could choose to remember a moment on purpose. I could decide that this ordinary Tuesday afternoon was worth preserving in the gallery of my consciousness.

The Practice of Sacred Attention

Since then, I've built entire mental albums of consciously captured moments. But that first experience taught me something profound: presence is a choice, and it's always available to us.

Even in yoga class, when my hips are protesting and my to-do list is calling.

Even during difficult conversations when I'd rather be anywhere else.

Even in the mundane moments that seem to just fill space between "important" events.

This is the practice: stopping to truly listen.

Being present to whatever is unfolding without immediately judging it as good or bad, comfortable or uncomfortable.

Simply witnessing what is.

The Screen Between Us and Life

Recently, I watched a family celebrating a birthday. It was a beautiful scene—multiple generations gathered around a cake, voices raised in song. But I noticed something heartbreaking: more than half the people were experiencing this precious moment through their phone screens, recording it for later rather than living it in the present.

They were present in body but absent in spirit, watching real life through a tiny digital window instead of with their own eyes.

Here's what I want to suggest: occasionally, put the phone down. Don't document the moment—inhabit it.

Take a mental photograph instead. I promise you, these images will last longer than any digital file, and you'll never have to search for them in your photo roll.

They're always there, ready to be treasured again and again.

The Gift Hidden in Every Moment

Every moment—even the uncomfortable ones, especially the uncomfortable ones—contains a gift. However, we must be present to receive it.

The gift might be a lesson in patience while stuck in traffic. It may lead to a deeper intimacy during a difficult conversation with someone you love. It might be the simple miracle of your breath continuing without your conscious effort, or the way light falls across your kitchen table while you drink your morning coffee.

These gifts are always being offered, but they require our presence to be received.

Ordinary Moments, Extraordinary Grace

Most of our days are filled with what we consider ordinary moments. We rush through them, eager to get to the "good parts"—the weekend, the vacation, the promotion, the someday when life will be different.

But when these ordinary moments are gone, we suddenly recognize their profound beauty. The sweetness of a child's laugh. The comfort of a routine conversation with a friend. The peaceful silence of early morning. The satisfaction of completing a simple task with full attention.

These moments were never ordinary. We just weren't present enough to recognize their extraordinary nature.

The Invitation Always Available

Right now, as you read these words, you have an opportunity. You can choose to be fully here, in this moment, with these ideas, in your body, in your chair, breathing this breath.

This moment will never come again. This exact configuration of light, sound, thought, and possibility exists only now.

Don't waste it by wanting it to be over. Don't throw it away by mentally rushing toward the next thing.

Treasure it. Honor it. Be present to it.

Because somewhere in this moment—in every moment—there is a gift waiting for us to receive it.

The question is: are we present enough to accept it?

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