The Defining Moments

Memory is highly selective. Take, for example, an event that took place when I was six years old. It was a few days after I raised the question of the meaning of life with my parents. 

I was walking down a narrow trail on the side of the mountain close to our cottage. I bent over to admire a solitary, tiny flower blooming on top of a very small, dark-green plant. 

Today I cannot recall the shape of the flower or the number of small leaves on the little plant. What I do remember are the tiny veins visible in the petals of the flower. From a distance, the flower was solid blue, but when I looked closer, it was an amalgamation of several shades of blue, intermingling in a joyful mood. All of that was taking place in this tiny body. I stood there, enchanted.

Then, with the innocence and tenderness available only to the very young at unguarded moments, I popped the question to the flower: “Can you tell me the meaning of life?” I was conversing with the flower as if I were talking to a new-born baby. I dared not touch the tiny miracle in front of me for fear of hurting it. The wonder in front of me was precious, priceless.

I have tried to look back and recollect that moment. Each time the same image comes back as I experienced it the first time. I can see a child with a flower, but I can only view that scene from above—as if hovering several feet above the scene. It looks like two indistinguishable souls, gazing at one another, each aware of the other.

I could not have articulated my feelings at that time, nor can I pull them into focus today. I just remember how, at that moment, I realized my smallness and vulnerability. One would think that for a child who had been coddled and pampered as if he were the center of the universe, as I had been, such an experience would have been disconcerting and threatening. The effect was quite different.

I remember a gentle feeling dawning upon me. I recall walking home with a big smile, as if walking on clouds. I did not know how to whistle, but there was music in my heart. The journey home seemed so short. 

During my lifetime I have seen thousands of flowers and admired their beauty, but the way I saw that particular flower on that particular day was out of this world.

All of us have experienced such moments—ones we can remember clearly, without memory of the things that happened before or after. There are numerous theories as to why this phenomenon is so common. I throw in one more speculation as to why this is the case. Perhaps some of those moments are when our day-to-day reality intersects with something transcendent. It is quite possible that in those rare and precious moments, when Heaven and earth dance together, we experience something that defines the rest of our lives.