Nature of Mind

A familiar, unsettling feeling creeps in—a feeling I know all too well. It’s the same sensation that comes on Sunday evenings, as another workweek looms ahead. The same feeling that surfaces when a long-awaited vacation is nearing its end. I remember it vividly from a few years ago, while traveling. I was in a small coffee shop in Bali when it struck me: I had crossed the midpoint of my trip. The realization hit hard. The party would soon be over, and the glass felt more empty than full.

This feeling has been a companion throughout my adult life. And now, as I sit in my favorite spot beneath this old tree, it returns. The days are growing shorter and colder. Soon, the trees will be bare. It’s hard to pinpoint, but it feels as though the sands of time are slipping away. A hollow feeling settles in my chest.

For years, I tried to avoid this feeling, distracting myself with mundane tasks—exercising, working, reading, meeting friends, texting anyone, opening a bottle of wine, watching another series, going for a drink, even meditating or practicing yoga. Anything to numb myself and escape this sensation.

Yet, no matter what I did, the feeling never truly disappeared. It’s always there, lurking in the background. I suspect I’m not alone in this. Many of us spend our lives running from it in one way or another.

But as I sit here, I feel the gentle breeze on my skin, the leaves softly stirring. The vast blue sky above invites me to see things from a broader perspective. It’s not all about me. I’m just a small part of something much larger. The tree I’m sitting under has been here a long time, and it will likely remain long after I’m gone. A sense of calm washes over me, releasing the tension. I don’t have to run anymore. I don’t have to escape or avoid this feeling. I can simply sit here, present with my experience, just as it is.

What is this feeling, really? At its root, what lies beneath it all?

Fear.

A subtle, gnawing fear that is always there, just beneath the surface. We spend our lives avoiding it, rarely acknowledging its presence.

Yes, the sands of time are running out. Summer always ends. In a few short months, the green leaves above will fall to the ground, brown and withered. Even this great plane tree I’m sitting under will eventually die.

But if I go deeper, what else is there?

I sit quietly for a moment…

A fear that when I die, I might not have lived my own life, might not have fulfilled my purpose. When this plane tree finally dies, it will do so having fulfilled its purpose. It wasn’t meant to be an oak or a beech or an ash. It was meant to be a plane tree, and it will die having fulfilled that purpose.

We always think we have more time—time to change, time to be true to ourselves, time to be brave, time to do what we’ve always wanted to do. But deep down, we might sense that we’re on the wrong path, that there must be more to life than this. Yet we tell ourselves there’s still time.

And so we wait.

Time marches on. The seasons change—spring becomes summer, summer fades into autumn, and autumn turns to winter.

You have only one life. When winter comes, when the end arrives, will you die having been true to yourself? Will you have discovered your gift and used it to the fullest?

Don’t wait too long.