Seize the day.

   "The Pillars of Creation," Eagle Nebula (NASA James Webb Space Telescope)

             

     Thirteen point eight billion years ago all the matter in the universe was condensed into a space far smaller than the period at the end of this sentence.
     As to how that is possible — it seems a very tight fit — well, that is above my ability to understand, never mind explain, beyond observing that the known universe, like American politics, is mostly empty space. The physicists making the claim seem very confident about it, and they ought to know.
     Whatever the true size — c'mon guys, a grapefruit, a basketball, give us something we can work with, intellectually — the gathered stuff exploded in the "Big Bang" setting all existence in motion, sending matter hurtling in all directions (that's why astronomers can figure this complicated situation down to a specific if enormous span of time, assuming that rounding to the nearest 100 million years can be called "specific" — they see where celestial stuff is, how fast it's all moving, and work backward).
     Leading us to today, you and me on Jan. 1, 2023. The holidays behind us. Entering the dead of winter. Heading toward the third anniversary, later this month, of the arrival of the COVID-19 pandemic, an epochal explosion in its own right, killing millions of people on our little planet in a little solar system in a remote corner of the galaxy, jarring societies into all manner of contortions. I don't want to project my own situation onto humanity as a whole, to be one of those people who, to use Thoreau's delicious phrase, "mistake their private ail for an infected atmosphere." But entering 2023, reality does not really seem to be expanding. On the contrary, quite contracted. The horizons narrower. Less public. Less promising. I once put on a suit and tie as a matter of routine, went downtown to a crowded office where I might interact with dozens of people, head to the East Bank Club for lunch to play racquetball with the editor of the paper, then slide by a meeting to chat with some mover and shaker.
     Now, well, nothing like that. Nothing close. Ever. Maybe it isn't COVID. Maybe it's the general etiolation of journalism, denied the healthful rays of fresh advertising and new readership, coupled with my own steady decay, a man entering in his mid-60s, as physical and mental systems gather entropy. Set against the backdrop of COVID. A triple whammy.
     What to do about it? This is where the vast, unfathomable amount of time since the creation of the universe comes in. Because really, whether you are 2 or 6 or 62, the amount of time you've had, the amount of time you've got, on a geological, never mind universal scale, is the briefest span. The single splat of one warm raindrop in a monsoon covering a continent and lasting a century. Not even that.
     Given how little our portion, the only strategy is to flip that around and declare it a bounty. Because it's all we're going to get. So enjoy the splat. Don't spend more of our brief span unhappy than we absolutely have to. There's enough of that without you contributing more. Experience our tiny, fleeting realm as fully as possible. As a person who, as an infant was nicknamed "the professor," given to introspection, to cerebral dourness, it might be late to change now. But wasting these precious days and years seems both ungrateful and unwise. There will be a near eternity to not be bothered by ... anything. Meanwhile, glories glitter above, and below, and among us.  Look at these photos from the James Webb Space Telescope. Look what a beautiful place we find ourselves in. How fortunate we are not only here, but are creatures who are able to perceive it, mostly. As opposed to rocks or worms or cobalt. Lucky us. Or as Hemingway said, "The world is a fine place and worth the fighting for"

       So wake up in the morning, stoke your internal fires best you can, and resolve to try to wring something of benefit out of the day. Then go to it. That's what I try to do, plan to continue doing, and hope you will too. It is incredibly gratifying to me that thousands of people visit this blog every day. Three days a week I serve up near professional grade newspaper journalism that goes in the Sun-Times. One day the spiritual wake-up call of Caren Jeskey. And the other three days, a combination of old chestnuts hauled out of the vaults, hopefully dangling from a thread of relevancy, along with original essays like this one. 

     I think I've taken enough of your precious time today, which beginning-to-end, is only a few eyeblinks compared to the massive scale nature plays out its still-boundless mysteries. (Speaking of which, I've always thought that matter, having exploded from the Big Bang, flies out in all directions, then, billions of years hence, will return upon itself, in some curved space quality we don't understand yet, and so maybe in another 13 billion years it'll all start hurtling back toward each other to reunite in another spot smaller than the period at the end of this sentence. There to linger for another unmeasurable span there until some unknowable force cries out "One more time," or meaning to that effect, and it all starts up again. That makes sense to me, a promises a sort of immortality).

     Until then, thank you for your attention. Happy New Year. We get another one, let's not waste it. Welcome 2023. But since even a year, short as it is, is too much for humans to grasp in totality, let's start with a more manageable unit: one day. This day. Jan. 1, 2023. Today. Carpe diem, as the Romans said. Seize the day.

Taken by the NASA James Webb Space Telescope. Used with permission.