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Show Page D8 - THE DAILY HERALD, Provo, Utah, Sunday, October 30, 1994 Seize the day and (focus on By J. RIMROCK PAULSON Special to The Daily Herald During the first rush of Indian summer, I was seated outside one early morning luxuriating in the perfect air. The sky was a deep cerulean blue, the temperature ideal. "This is bliss," I muttered to myself. I contemplated the beauties and the mysteries of nature. Sitting thus, at the side of the road, I was a Friend to Man. In the midst of these serene thoughts, someone walked by and said, "I wish it would stay like this always." That brought me back to earth with a thump. The connotation of that remark, even the tone of voice, said this: "Sure, it's perfect now, but just you wait! The weath- with a red globe. "And here is..." She interrupted me, intent on her monologue. I've thought often of that woman, so wrapped up in the future that she couldn't enjoy the wonders of today. Obsessive dwelling on the past or the future can be harmful, as the following episode indicates. The story concerns a writer friend, successful in the suspense and mystery genres. A mutual friend told me that Larry (not his real name) had become so full of anxieties that he developed writer's block couldn't write a sentence. He went to a psychiatrist, and after they chatted a few minutes, the doctor wlhatt Does played back the conversation, which he had taped. The doctor said, "In three minutes of conversation, you said the phrase, "If only," five times. If only you had done this instead of that, bought instead of sold, zigged about a future that does not yet exist. The good Lord offers us this beautiful bright (or rainy, cloudy, snowy or stormy) day. The advice, though not in words, is obvious to even the most "Do something useful with this day, something posidull-witte- d: instead ofzagged." The psychiatrist explained that the "if onlies," a manifestation of anxiety, could destroy the mind. He said that three previous patients, who had said their "If onlies" in various ways, all had landed in mental institutions. "Larry" also wound up in the loony bin, though in time was cured. Most of us spend too many remorseful hours over the mistakes of the past, or worry fruitlessly tive." When I organized my own attitude about this, I burned in wood a phrase that sums it up. It is "carpe diem," a Latin term for "seize the day!" The sign hangs over the door of my office, reminding me to keep trying my best to become a day-seize- r. Help came from an unexpected quarter. Browsing in a bookstore, I chanced across a 4lA- - by ch clearly at hand book of 41 pages, hardbound, Every yesterday a dram of happiness And every tomorrow a vision of enti- tled A Way of Life. It is the whole of a talk by Sir William Osier, r, given before Yale Divinity students in April 1913. I've owned perhaps two dozen copies, giving away all but one. The gist of Sir William's talk is a plea to do the day's work, to live in the day. He tells how, when a young man, he read Carlyle's dictum, "Our main business is not to see what lies dimly at a distance, hope. physician-writer-educato- Osier's own exemplary life, his immense productivity, his work for the benefit of humankind, proved that his rhetoric, taken seriously, can be tremendously fruitful. He made only one concession about the future a person must on a prominence occasionally get and make plans for the future: But don't overdo it. Look well therefore to this day! Such is the salutation of the but to do what lies clearly at hand," part of a poem that exem- dawn! plifies his outlook: For yesterday is but a dream And tomorrow is only a vision; But today, weii-live- d makes Rimrock Paulson, a native of Pleasant Grove, is a retired journalist living in St. George. . er's been bad in the past, and it will be bad in the future," This was a minor matter, but it set ine to thinking about some other incidents bearing directly on my attitude toward some of the cliches of life, and my partly original, partly borrowed philosophy of living: One such incident occurred in Provo a few years ago, shortly after I had returned from Washington, D.C., where I wrote speeches, edited a magazine and did" assorted public relations chores. A former college schoolmate hailed me and invited me into a nearby soda fountain for a cuppa. Seated, we gave our orders to the waitress, and soon as she departed, he leaned across the table vvith a strange glimmer in his amber eyes. He spoke, virtually the first words I had heard from him in about 15 years: ?How old are you Jean?" My rush of anger was all out of proportion. "None of your (bleep) business." He was astonished at my reaction echoing my words incoherent- iy-- : "I haven't seen you for or more. And your first words are to ask me my age. You already know what it is, almost to I said, 15 ".years the; month; we went to school to- gether." There's no shame to age. Rut I resolved as a boy to refrain from dwelling on it. That attitude keeps you from growing old prematurely. "Keep fretting about age and you'll worry yourself into senility," I told him. My words fell on barren ground, for every time I saw him, he was concerned about someone's age, including his own. The results were evident in his gait, his face and his garrulous conversation. Now, that's hardly a scientific bit of research supporting my thesis. Call me a curbstone psychologist. Still we all are aware, and there's plenty of evidence to substantiate it, that the force of the mind is enormous, positively or negatively, even in cases of severe illness. The Master showed the way. Another case of living in the future came to light in the person of a young advertising salesman I met in a central California city. He was only in his early thirties, yet he was forever talking about retirement. My bear trap memory retains his very tone as he said repeatedly, "When I retire, I ..." Today seemed to mean little to him; he was always wallowing in the future. This linked itself to another memory. When I was a young man, for a couple of summers I was a guide at Timpanogos Cave. In late fall, business tapered off to maybe two or three people a day. One afternoon, when the sun was splashing a mauve, yellow, purple and red painting on the opposite side of the canyon wall, a large, heavy woman appeared at the top of the trail. She was wearing a white dress and her flushed face showed the exertion of that one-mil- e climb on the 12 percent, switchback trail. ,;When she got her breath, she asked me sternly, "Young man, dp you know what heaven is like?" ; "Well no, can't say that I do." She proceeded to tell me in vivid language. 'JL "But how do you know the garments up there are white?" I asked. "Why not purple or red? IJiey're more interesting." ; "Because they are," she snapped. ; . We went through the cave, but I doubt if she saw a single stalactite. She continued to regale me with ie marvelous sights and sounds and feelings that would be mine in the hereafter. Finally, we came to fte Great Heart of Timpanogos, a giant stalactite in the shape of a human heart, artfully backlighted fffi ' Nli7 K NW D I 7 f"M ' -"- s- I l lM mm M , iff I P v.celebratory looks delight the eye and dazzle their way through the season with splendid holiday embellishments. 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