I’m constantly traveling both ways: sometimes back into the idealized past, other times forward to the eagerly awaited future. I nostalgically remember the days before the injury fell unexpectedly and heavily on me; before I woke up and couldn’t move my left limbs; before I was strongly fastened to my bed by my seizures, which attacked in their unforeseen way and left me and all those around me overwhelmed by fear.
Of course, that is all water under the bridge, but every now and then, a yearning for the before-the-injury times creeps into my mind. Those were the times when I could walk fast and dance freely; when I could sing and enjoy singing; when I could work (and type my translation and editing jobs fast with two hands); when I could cook for my family, for BHA members, and for the needy – when I was active and could help others, instead of needing others to help me. Then, I focus on the future: time will magically fly, and suddenly, the past will be restored to me and I’ll be able to do the things I’m unable to do now.
Since I’m constantly traveling back and forth, I never spend much time here, in the present. And since I don’t remain here, I can’t carry out all those activities that I can actually perform because I have the gift that the injury has given me – the gift of time (I talk about it elsewhere). I can’t think of it as a gift that needs to be played with, that needs to be enjoyed; I can’t rejoice in it. A while ago, I felt happy to have time to do things that give me pleasure, and now I can’t find pleasure in doing them because I spend all my free time looking at the past and the future.
I should strive to have, unlike Janus, one face only and look only at the present, enjoying the beauty each day has to offer. I should neither yearn nor hope, but deliberately savor each day’s delicacy. I shouldn’t travel backward or forward; I should play with my gift.
Of course, that is all water under the bridge, but every now and then, a yearning for the before-the-injury times creeps into my mind. Those were the times when I could walk fast and dance freely; when I could sing and enjoy singing; when I could work (and type my translation and editing jobs fast with two hands); when I could cook for my family, for BHA members, and for the needy – when I was active and could help others, instead of needing others to help me. Then, I focus on the future: time will magically fly, and suddenly, the past will be restored to me and I’ll be able to do the things I’m unable to do now.
Since I’m constantly traveling back and forth, I never spend much time here, in the present. And since I don’t remain here, I can’t carry out all those activities that I can actually perform because I have the gift that the injury has given me – the gift of time (I talk about it elsewhere). I can’t think of it as a gift that needs to be played with, that needs to be enjoyed; I can’t rejoice in it. A while ago, I felt happy to have time to do things that give me pleasure, and now I can’t find pleasure in doing them because I spend all my free time looking at the past and the future.
I should strive to have, unlike Janus, one face only and look only at the present, enjoying the beauty each day has to offer. I should neither yearn nor hope, but deliberately savor each day’s delicacy. I shouldn’t travel backward or forward; I should play with my gift.
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