As a child, I loved pulling a blade of grass from its grassy bed, waiting for a pale green, juicy stripe to appear at the end. I would place that tip on my tongue and, with my teeth, squeeze out the sweet, succulent juice. Many flower blossoms offered the same magic—you could pull out the petals from the base, touch the point where they joined with your tongue, and drink the divine nectar.
The older I become, the closer and more tangible death feels. And the stronger grows the pull in my life, in my consciousness, toward focusing on now—this very moment. Death is already breathing down my neck, so real that it feels as if there’s no time left at all, and that if I don’t do what I long for now, tomorrow may no longer offer the chance.
That’s why I want everything now, now.
I sense that perhaps I will die a sudden death—before I ever reach the time to collect a pension or spend what was put aside for a “golden autumn.”
But—I do not dwell on what will be. I dwell on what is.
I want to savor this life fully.
To draw the nectar from the flower completely.
To feel on my tongue the tender, divine petals where the most wondrous taste is hidden—the taste of the present moment. To drink it in, to feel its sweetness, its freshness, its lushness.
And in that moment, to experience the impossible beauty and magical flavor—the taste of life itself.