"Live in the present."
The problem is, without a plan for the future--an exciting, romantic, and inspiring plan, no less--I can't. I think and plot and scheme and worry, all the while living in my head, in the mist of the maybe-future. The funny remedy is a booked flight. As soon as the confirmation screen appears, I come back to the present. Seven more weeks here? I look around with new eyes. Seven more weeks, then; I better make the most of it.
The good humour of my students, the sunset behind the volcano, the iguanas on the beach, the adolescent white flamingos in the lagoon, the smell of the panaderia, the hammock hours--these things become more valuable because I've stamped them with an expiration date. With the future sorted, the present is easy to live in.
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