As a kid, I believed in things. The sure feet of Peanuts, my gentle horse. Santa Claus, God, the heat-emitting charisma of my older cousins, the say-so of my sister and brothers. I believed that following rules, like brushing my teeth and raising my hand and, by-God, being there if I said I’d be there meant that things would unfold in predictable order, in fair proportion to my effort, and on time. 

For the most part, this scaffolding imprinted in early life held. I graduated from college with a shiny degree and ideas, friends and family that would encircle me for the rest of my life, and job interviews. I kept on living with my body in the present, my thoughts on the distant horizon, as I relished my freedom to make choices and plans. If A, then B. When this, then that. I kept working toward that perfect future, never realizing that the distance between here and there hadn’t changed. 

At some point, I began to notice things, namely the things I wasn’t noticing.

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This actually happened in the middle of a talk I was giving on mindfulness in the workplace: someone walked in who reminded me of someone I knew in college, which led me to remember the night we left the football game and stayed up late enough to do the Buckhorn Roll (don’t ask). Which got me thinking about how much it hurts to roll down stairs.

And I was off on a mind-wandering adventure of epic proportions.

Come to think of it, my neck feels kind of cramped. Should I have it looked at? Speaking of doctors, it’s Maura’s birthday. I wonder if I need more doctors. Why do women think the doctors who help us have our babies are God? Well, our kids. I mean, yes, come to think of it, it totally makes a lot of sense…wonder why the boys haven’t called since…let’s see, was it Monday?...

I had a microphone in front of me the whole time, and I hope words related to my actual talk came out of my mouth. I was aware that I sputtered a few sentences, but I have no idea what I said. Awkward. There I was, talking about the benefits of staying present—how it engenders compassion, enhances executive function, improves focus. And I had fallen completely off the wagon. Center stage.

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I set my book down on the table when my friend walked into the kitchen. “’Welcoming the Unwelcome,’” she said, taking in the title on the splayed cover. “Why would you want to read a book like that?” She was smiling, but I could tell she wanted an answer. “Who would ever want to welcome the unwelcome?”

It’s a fair question, if somewhat of a trick. No one wants to get stranded in the barrow pit with a flat, be the last person chosen, stranded on the island of loneliness in an unhappy career or relationship. You don’t welcome a bad diagnosis or the crushing weight of bullies. Not even the most enlightened among us would welcome these reminders that we can be reduced to ash at any moment. That we are small.

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