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The majority of days of one’s life are eventless. We wake, dress, eat, do chores, read, watch TV. If there are pets, we tend to them. Weather isn’t remarkable. We go about the business of living, with absolutely nothing exceptional occurring.

This is what we don’t remember. How does one go about pinpointing which exact Thursday it was that there wasn’t any coffee left, so we had to have tea, instead? Or the day that we forgot to pick up the drycleaning.

No. We remember instead the day that the doctor said we needed a biopsy. The day that the car slid on the ice and rammed into a tree. Or we recall with a glow the day he proposed, or that evening that the moon was full and the phone rang with the news that a child was pregnant.

Our lives are peppered with memorable events, but not laden with them. So many days are lived and then promptly forgotten, full of the commonplace ins and outs that make up an existence. We conduct our rituals without even being aware of them.

The Zen masters teach that we must live in the moment. Very few of us do. But as I get older and the days ahead of me stretch out in an ever shorter line, I try to revel in the ordinary. A day in which nothing happens. An evening in which I look back at the day with nothing more than a blink of the familial.

Days of insignificance are the essence of the lives of  the fortunate.

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