{A range of expressions registers across the faces of these four lovely young women - identified as the Mishanec sisters -as they pose for an outdoor photo in 1937.}
{Paper moon fun abounds in this cute shot of three 1940s youngsters.}
{A well dressed middle aged couple from 1959. I adore her whisper pale lavender hued dress and complimentary purple corsage.}
{Studio (or perhaps school) portrait loveliness from the days of 1947. What a beautiful smile and twinkling eyes this young lass had.}
{1950s playsuit stylishness snapped at Wood Island Park, East Boston, Massachusetts. The woman in the photo is identified as "Dot", a name which I think suits her well.}
{It's shades of Sunday blue finery for this quartet of girls from 1949 (you've got to love the saddle shoes partnered with a fancy dress on the gal at the far right).}
{Could the 1940s lady on the right's look get any cooler? I rather think not.}
{A lovely young bride and (first lieutenant) groom on their wedding day at West Point Military Academy, 1952.}
{Fantastic patio/squaw dress style abounds in this charming 1956 snapshot of a woman posing in bedroom near an Oregon State pennant and a number of photos.}
{A cheerful looking, sharply dressed 1940s couple enjoying an afternoon at the seaside. Her whole outfit (hair flowers and headkerchief very much included) is elegantly lovely.}
{All images above are from Flickr. To learn more about a specific image, please click on it to be taken to its respective Flickr page.}
The concept of living in the moment is by no means a new one. It may have had its days in the limelight over the past few decades (especially during the peace-and-love 60s and the do-as-you-please 80s), but long before Thoreau said the beautiful words in today's quote, humans have oven striven to embrace, capture, and enjoy the essence of the moment that they were existing in as it transpired.
It is natural, human and completely normal to hope, dream and plan the future. However, it can become far too easy to build such a detailed pictured of what lies ahead, that you almost forget to stop and appreciate the majestic quality of the here and now.
Earlier this spring I began to think a lot about something that, while by no means a new realization for me, reminders of which kept being thrown my way. I say the following as matter-of-factly as though I were telling you the date or what colour the grass is. I do not see myself as a victim of these circumstances, merely a product of elements far beyond my control.
Due to the extremely unpredictable nature of battling multiple severe chronic illnesses, it is often very challenging for me to make plans ahead of time. To be more accurate, it's easy enough to make said plans, what is difficult is feeling well enough when the time comes to follow through with them. I could craft the most detailed travel itinerary in the world, plan a huge and elaborate party, promise to attend any event you could dream of, but the simple fact is that, until the moment of the particular going-on arose, I would almost no way of knowing if I'd feel well enough to be present.
Yes, sometimes, in the very immediate short-term I can try to predict, for example, how I might feel on an upcoming Sunday, based on how I'm doing health wise two days before hand, and there are various lifestyle and diet elements I can steer in certain directions to try and help my health as best as possible, but ultimately, there is really nothing I can do to guarantee I'll be able to attend any of the plans I make in advance.
There are, as I'm sure you can imagine, pros and cons to living a life like this day in and day out (my world has been this way for nearly eleven years now). On the one hand, it can be hard to constantly have to tell people "We'll see" or "I really hope I can make it" when invited out (and of course then there's the scenario in which, after a while, understandably enough, some folks just stop inviting you out at all, knowing how often you've not been able to attend their events), as well as to know that plans I make myself are, at best, lightly penciled in, ready to be erased at any moment by my health.
I would love beyond words to buy a concert ticket for, say, four months from now and know that I'll be able to plunk myself down in my seat come that night, but it would not be financially wise to do so because past experiences have taught me (many a time) that such will rarely actually be the case. I'd give my favourite vintage dress to promise a friend I'll be there at her birthday party, know I will be seated around the Christmas dinner table at my parents house, assure my husband we'll go out on our wedding anniversary night. But, if I'm being honest with myself and with those around me, I cannot, and at this point in my life, I've made about as much peace with this fact as I think one ever realistically can.
The flip side to living this kind of day-to-day existence is that it truly helps you to exist in the moment. To cherish the good times so incredibly much, those days when I wake up and feel well enough to leave the house, to don my vintage finery, to visit with loved ones, and to experience plans made, far more often than not, completely on the fly.
I have become far quite spontaneous (relatively speaking!), and by the same token, I never forget to stop and smell the roses. To savour the caress of a warm summer's breeze on my bare arms in the summer, the symphony of crunches under foot as I walk through a field of fallen autumn leaves, or the sound of rain pouncing on the car as we take a rare and wonderful springtime Sunday drive.
Mapping out my tomorrows would have its perks for sure, but being given the gift of today when you're chronically ill, is, quite frankly, immeasurably incredible in and of itself. I have learned, as Thoreau so wisely said, to find my eternity in each moment, and I could not ask for a richer life than that.
