From The Moment:

Heavy with homesickness for being: ill-adapted. In my
heaviness the moment passes me by. I’m looking for it in
these scattered words. Is it looking for me too, the moment,
calling me into itself? Does it need my words to
come to itself? But it’s been and gone and I’m passing
my time in detours. Then—miracle—the words come together
and lift me into it.

A walk before lunch. I sit on the stump of a tree and write
a note on my phone. The screen reflects the sky as I write,
partly obscuring my words. When I name a thing it comes
alive for an instant, then sinks back into itself. These
words really should be varying shades between black and
white, appearing and disappearing on the screen. And yet
they seem to be making their way towards something.
Towards what?

The wisdom of certain everyday phrases. We speak of being
in the moment and of pregnant moments. We speak
of the fullness of time, of a time that’s ripe. Beautiful
phrase: the fullness of time. What does it mean? In everyday
language, when something happens in the fullness of
time it happens at a time that has finally come, a time of
the fulfilment of some event. Something comes into its
own, something time has ripened. For Paul it had to do
with the first and second coming of Christ, and the coming
to pass of God’s plan at decisive moments in history.
But what if it were taken to refer not to a past or future
event so much as to time itself? What if the fullness of
time referred not to a time that’s ripe for something but
to a time that’s ripe with itself, that fulfils itself in the
moment?

If the moment is the revelation of the fullness of time,
it can’t be part of everyday time. It can’t simply be one of
a series of separate nows, but rather the felt instant that
opens your present out to the future and gives your past
meaning—only to withdraw again.

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