Move On

I spent a hypnotic afternoon in Central Park, strolling, listening to Sunday in the Park With George. I strolled so slowly that I was barely moving. Strolling is a lost art. No one strolls anymore. It's not even strolling, it's more like crawling. I crawled through Central Park, at a snail’s pace, listening to the same Stephen Sondheim song over and over again: Move On. Some of my favorite Sondheim lyrics are contained in that song.

"Stop worrying where you're going
Move on.
If you can know where you're going
You've gone.
Just keep moving on."

As I strolled, I was overwhelmed with a feeling of gratitude. Grateful that Central Park exists. Grateful I have an iPod. Grateful I have the luxury of time. It's amazing how easy it is to be mindlessly busy. Mental clutter constantly creeps into my brain. I force myself to resist it. Just say no, Ronnie! I get invited to a see a play that I don't want to see. I say yes, then spend three days trying to figure out how to get out of it. I answer all my e-mails and the next day I have 40 more. I feel tortured by them. I could spend my whole life answering e-mails, but what kind of life would that be? I don't want my tombstone to read: "Here lies Ronnie Larsen. He answered his e-mails." Time is fleeting, life is short, my mother is dying and every minute I spend doing something I don't want to do is a moment I don't spend doing something I do want to do.

I haven't learned much in my 36 years on this planet, but I do know that time is a precious commodity. I must learn to use it better. In a year from now I won't remember the silly e-mails I answered, but I will remember my stroll in Central Park with Stephen Sondheim on a cold afternoon on the last day of January 2006.