Life has changed a great deal in the past few years and as much as I try thinking otherwise, it seems I have nothing interesting going on. My life, at best, is trivial. Nothing exciting on my horizon, no trips to anywhere but here, life just contracts and becomes a matter of daily obligations, more like repetitive tasks which are, in themselves, important. Without them, I’d be in danger of not just losing purpose but of losing time itself. At this stage of my life, holding onto as much time as possible is, well, essential.

Yet, there are days when it would be nice to conjure up a little excitement that doesn’t have to do with hearing that someone fell ill, lost a job, a pet, or some weather-related issue which threatens to wreak havoc. Personally, I have a need to work more and be part of something a great deal more productive than what I currently do on an extremely limited basis. I have a need to be part of something more important going on besides marking time.

When these thoughts come calling, I try and gather one or two sources with reasonable thinking to see what they have to say on the subject.

The idiom, “Still waters run deep,” is one of my favorites. There is a danger of judging people by the way they present themselves. Hidden emotions does not mean that an individual lacks strong feelings in that regard. It’s a metaphor which refers to a river that seems calm enough and relaxed but if you dive in you would likely find yourself whisked away by the turmoil just below the surface. In short, just because you cannot see something doesn’t mean it’s not there. Musings such as this help to keep my brain rolling along while driving the train of my thoughts to happy and sad stations. Happenings may not be noticeable, but they are there.

I’ve always enjoyed T.S. Eliot’s title poem character, J. Alfred Prufrock, who stated, “I have measured out my life with coffee spoons,” to describe the insignificant moments that constituted his life. Emily Dickinson was always drawn to several small daily happenings: a hummingbird coming to the window box, a bumblebee kissing the flower, the dust cloth that must be shaken. Dickinson described these trivialities so vividly that as you read them, they come alive. I think it was because to her they were not only features of the immediate present, but riveting, exciting, important events. She might well have been thinking about the fact that she had just washed the kitchen floor (as I have just done) and was waiting impatiently for it to dry so she could slip back in and grab one more cup of coffee (as do I) when she said, “Forever is composed of Nows/’Tis not a different time.”

Albert Einstein said this very thing when he talked about past, present and future being an illusion, as if there were an ever-present “now” that made up all our big and small moments.

So, as I rummage through Christmas items in an attempt to muster up some holiday cheer, I inhabit the Now of that moment with Dickinsonian attention. Memories of holidays past are inside each item I unwrap in attempt to make a meaningful display. I listen to Christmas music playing as I trudge along, and notice the flicker of a blindingly sharp winter sun as it flashes through bare branches of the trees. My Now is important, part of my Ongoing, with complications and infoldings as profound as a trip to parts unknown.

In such a light, nothing can be trivial and I refuse to allow that to happen.