Nostalgia will rob you again and again, starting at the dawn of a memorable experience, when melancholy casts its shadow and whispers, you’re going to miss this, dear one.

This is something I fell victim to as a young father, when I found myself blubbering on a therapist’s couch, relaying the crushing sadness I felt whenever I looked at an art piece my first grader brought home from school.

“Why does it make you sad?”
“Because I’m missing it! I’m so miserable, I can’t feel the way a dad should feel.”

Part of my misery (though not all of it) was grief at the impermanence of my child’s younger years. My persistent wish was to possess a magic button which would pause world. Give me a break, let me catch my breath, gain my bearings.

Give me time to get happy, so I can be happy.

I considered myself a stationary object in the center of a whirlwind, everything moving faster than I could possibly go. I was hopelessly dizzy.

I think we’re all prone to wanting the world to stop from time to time. It’s why we take so many pictures. When we witness something magnificent, like a waterfall, we take a picture to keep the water from falling. But it’s not the same, is it? A waterfall must fall, children must grow, and every photo we take is like trying to dictate life’s story on the surface of a running river.

I watched my youngest perform at his final high school band concert. This time, nostalgia did not rob me. The music was magnificent, like a sonic waterfall. How did I enjoy the experience? I became it. I moved as it moved, no pause button.
I let the moment go, and the moment took me with it.