Searching the broad horizon of tomorrow,
we strive desperately to catch hold of the things we want.
We barrel on through our days, heads down,
minds on the responsibilities that are weighing in, heavy.
Moments of quiet are met with unease and guilt—
because time is a mistress who waits for no one.
Our lives are so often shaped by our futures:
by a shifting, swirling storm of possibilities,
by that future we are struggling to create out of nothing.
But our lives are defined by our pasts—
not by what we will do, but by what we have done.
And it is a fearful thing, the past,
because we cannot change it—and time never forgets.
It does more than define us, though,
our histories teach us who we really are.
Our past instructs us with the cold metal of reality,
while weaving a warm tapestry rich in colour, of which we are only a part.
We cannot dwell there, in the past,
for our thread is still being woven—a Master is hard at work.
We cannot dwell in the future, either,
because we do not know the pattern—nor do we need to.
What we need to do is trust the present.
Live in it. Love it. Be in it, because that is where we belong.
Like home, it is only in living, loving, and being
that we can make the present a place of rest.