Holding Preciousness In A Time of Too Much


What is the most precious moment of your day so far today? Maybe it was kissing someone goodbye this morning, or stepping outside and feeling the air on your face, or savouring a good cup of coffee in a mug given from friend?

How did you hold that moment? 

One of the biggest teachings from the herd on preciousness has come through death. I can see now that the first time it happened, I was still well entrenched in our time of “too much”.  

You know how this time goes, right?

Break something and replace it. Somethings gotten tired, update it. Job is getting you down, find another. So much available to us that we forget how precious every little thing is. Like that kiss, the air of today, that mug given specially to you, that coffee born of the sun and the wind and rain.

Preciousness has been lost in the too much.

Not too long ago I was taking part in a class that included people from far away places who had flown in. We were about to learn how to carve a wooden spoon from branches that we brought. In the scramble to get started, some of the folks who had taken airplanes asked if anyone local had a spare branch they could use. Our guide stopped everyone cold. Lesson 1 in our carving venture: there is no ‘spare’ wood. Share, of course, but nothing is ‘extra’.

The day our dear herd friend, Cohen, died, I woke up, looked outside and started about my chores – and they were “chores” then (as in domestic work of frequent reoccurrence). When I noticed he was in discomfort, I assessed the situation, called our vet and set about to fix it. (He was having what horse folks know as gas colic – a block in their intestines from gas build up.)  

What would be the last time we walked out with the herd that day, I didn’t know it was the last time. I wasn’t paying attention. But the herd knew. Later I would replay in my mind the scene of each one quietly going up to him to touch noses, or share breath, or simply stand together. They hadn’t done that the other times we walked out that day, and I hadn’t noticed. I was so intent on fixing things.

Later that evening I sat with his body suddenly acutely aware of the preciousness of a thousand little moments that day that came and went without being tended to.

I wake up differently now – I say blessings, greet the day on purpose with the herd, savour every precious moment for what it brings. And I end the day differently too. Ending on purpose, praying of course, that we all wake up together the next day, but never assuming it will be so.

The day’s not over, preciousness can still have it’s due.

Christina TurnerComment