Just for Now... by Liz Flaherty

 This was first on the Window in April of 2022. Like April of this year, it was a time of changing, of sorrow and dance, of ...well, April being April. Today would be my mother's birthday--I'm pretty sure she'd like this one. I hope you won't mind reading it again. 

I've always known what the word ephemeral meant, but I've never used it--possibly because I didn't know how to spell it and I'm not completely sure of its pronunciation. It means, in case you aren't sure, "lasting a very short time."

Coming from my position on life's calendar, I think that includes everything except possibly hot flashes, bad movies, and sleepless nights. However, the ephemerality is often in retrospect, isn't it? When my kids were young, I thought the terrible twos went on for about twelve years. When it was my grandkids, it only lasted minutes--days at the most. 

The bluebird's on the clothesline this morning. He's so quick. I wish he'd stay, but he has too much going on to pose outside my office window for long. 

The forsythia bush is like its own little sunbeam in the corner of the yard where it's been the whole time we've lived here. Sunrise this morning was brightly, achingly beautiful. One of my favorite pictures ever is of the rainbow that lit the sky over the neighbors' barn. They last such a short time, don't they, and yet they last forever, too. 

If you don't like who's in the White House, his tenure lasts an agonizingly long time. If you do like him, you relax a little because you feel safer, but no sooner have you put up the footrest of the recliner than it's election year yet again. 

Loss makes you more aware of how fleeting everything is. That's when you realize that the term a good, long life is subjective. Because to the ones left behind, long wasn't nearly long enough. Loss also reminds you to be grateful. Again and again and again. For family, friends, and memories--and for that life that wasn't long enough.

Nothing is more transitory than weather, although I believe the wind and rain are 

Photo by Regine Brindle

here to stay. What we need to do, other than wait it out, is find the beauty in it. Regine Brindle does that better than most. She's one of my gratitudes today, for sharing her pictures. More than just visual, they gift the other senses as well. For the writer in me, she always makes me find words. Lacy, anyone? Fragile? Tenderness? 

My grandson took this picture, which I stole without conscience, at Kilgore Falls in Maryland. I don't know its story, but I do know looking at the photograph builds a story in the mind. 

Photo by Skyler Wilson

The objects of the photographs move instantly from how they look there. The ice blows off the trees. The waterfall continues to roar and move the wood in the picture. Ephemerality at its best. 

And maybe that's what I'll end this with. Because of photographs and memories, we get to keep those moments. Even if we are at a point that we don't actually recall them, I'm not so sure we don't always remember on some plane how they made us feel. I'm not so sure we can't still experience the joy. I hope so. 

Have a good week. Be grateful. Be nice to somebody.