Footprints

by Budd Glassberg

Reprinted with permission from the Zionsville Times Sentinel on March 5, 2008

Thankful for the Memories

“Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans.” – John Lennon

We all have had them. Many of us wish there were more of them. They are those rare but absolutely unforgettable moments or images that have been etched in stone in some crevasse of our brains. These memories are easily retrievable because of the indelible marks they have made on us. They are as close to something permanent as anything we may ever experience. I would speculate that if all other memories left us, a few of these moments would remain in tact. Perhaps these unforgettable instances are what flash before us before we die.

Indulge me for a minute. Reach back into your mind for the most unforgettable moment in your life. I would venture to guess that when that moment occurred, you were not dwelling on something in your past nor projecting some future scenario. Generally, those treasured times occur when we are firmly entrenched in the present. Thinking back to your most cherished memories, I think you will agree with my premise.

Last week, while on an early morning run, the snow was falling gently and I was ruminating over something that had happened the day before. Running alone in the dark on the rail trail, I decided, as I often do these days, to attempt to find the mind switch and turn it off. With practice, I can usually keep my mind unoccupied for a few minutes or so before some thought seemingly coming from nowhere, will elbow its way into the void. On this morning, I was running on the rail-trail near the Christian Church with my mind in neutral when my eyes focused on an image which is now chiseled forever as an unforgettable moment of my life.

With my senses alert to the surroundings, I gazed upward to see the lighting near the church that was high above me and tilted slightly downward. Coming out of darkness were snowflakes falling ever so slowly. First they drifted into the beam of light, which cast an angle of illumination up from the emitting lamppost. Then they floated through the light ultimately falling out of sight past the oblique angle of brightness pouring from the lower portion of the lamplight. I stopped running. Watching individual snowflakes moving so incredibly slowly that they seemed to defy gravity, I marveled at the picture before me. No other sounds invaded this moment. For that brief time, I could hear the snow falling. The surrounding quiet was indeed the sound of snow falling. Breathing in the cold air was nearly intoxicating. It seemed as though I could feel all that was around me. Time appeared to disappear. I cannot say how long I stood there looking at this sight. Of one thing I am certain; I can clearly see this picture in my mind’s eye in exact detail. I am also certain that I will never forget that image.

Running that morning with my mind turned off at that time was a blessing to me. It does, however, make me wonder how often I have missed moments like the one I experienced, when I was just unreceptive to the occurrence. How many times had I run by that spot under similar situations when my mind was busy making plans about what I would be doing later in the day? How often do we miss the wonder that is all around us while we run and rerun the same scripted monologue in our heads?

There is great value in the memories that have forged a permanent path into our existence. Sometimes secret pathways to these memories are revealed to us. At such times it is significant to make note of the circumstances that bought us to these epiphanies. I learned that morning the importance of limiting the amount of time that I dwell on the past or the future. I intend to make a point of switching off the internal dialogue and chatter that permeates my thoughts whenever I notice them barging in without invitation. Hopefully this will foster more of those memorable moments for which I am extremely grateful.

Budd Glassberg is a 23 year resident of Zionsville who works and volunteers in the community. Visit www.runz.com for reprints of all his columns. You can reach him by email at budd@runz.com.