Tomorrow never arrives and yesterday is gone. What remains is this breath, this moment. Not a slogan, but a way to live—through small practices of presence, kindness, and gratitude.
Yesterday, I listened to Prem Rawat remind us of something beautifully simple: tomorrow doesn’t exist—because when it arrives, it’s already today. Yesterday doesn’t exist—because it’s gone and will never come back. What remains, what is, is this living moment. Not as a slogan, not as a pretty idea, but as the beating heart of our experience.
This isn’t an invitation to “party like crazy because tomorrow we die.” It’s an invitation to wake up to the quiet miracle that we are alive now—to savour what is here before it slips, as all moments do, into memory.
Yesterday and tomorrow: useful, but not real
Of course, we make plans. We learn from the past and put dates in our calendars. That’s fine. But planning and remembering are activities that happen today. When I pour worry into the future or drag regret from the past, I drain colour from the only canvas I can paint on: the present.
When I actually look, I notice that the richness of life—taste, touch, breath, warmth, the eyes of a friend—never lands in “later.” It always arrives as a gift labelled now.
The gift hidden in plain sight
There is a kind of ordinary magic in this moment. Not fireworks, not fanfare—just the intimacy of being here. The breath enters and leaves. The heart works without applause. A cup of coffee offers its small, perfect warmth to my hands. A bird insists, against all odds, on singing. These are not background details; they are the main event.
When I let myself feel the ordinary miracle, something softens. The mind, so eager to measure, compare, and predict, takes one step back. In that space, gratitude can breathe.
Five tiny practices to meet the moment
I’m not trying to become a saint. I’m simply practicing being present. These small rituals help:
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Three conscious breaths. Wherever I am—queue, train, kitchen—I pause for three slow breaths. I feel them arrive. I feel them go. That’s it.
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Name one beautiful thing. I look around and name it silently: “Light on the wall.” “Steam from the mug.” “That laugh.” Beauty gets brighter when noticed.
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Feel the feet. I let attention drop into the soles of my feet. Grounded again, I return to what I’m doing with clearer eyes.
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Offer one kind act. A text, a smile, washing a cup I didn’t dirty—tiny acts place me squarely in the present and connect me to others.
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Close the day gently. Before sleep, I recall one moment I truly met today. Not the “biggest” moment—the truest. I say thank you, and let the rest go.
None of these take time. They give time back—time I was losing to autopilot.
When life is difficult
Presence is not a trick to avoid pain or pretend everything’s fine. Some days are heavy. The work of being human doesn’t stop. But even on the hard days, now offers a foothold. I can’t swallow the whole mountain; I can take the next step. I can breathe this breath. I can ask for help. I can be kind to myself in the middle of the mess.
Strangely, that kindness is practical. It steadies the hand, softens the jaw, clears the gaze. It returns me to the living moment where wise action is actually possible.
What “savouring life” looks like (for me)
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Slowing the first sip. Coffee, tea, water—it doesn’t matter. I give the first sip five full seconds of attention. The world becomes more vivid.
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Single-tasking, poorly but sincerely. I attempt to do one thing at a time. I fail often. I try again. Every small success feels like relief.
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Walking like I’m already there. On a short walk, I stop “getting somewhere” and let myself arrive with each step.
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Listening to listen. When someone speaks, I practice hearing what they mean, not just the words. Connection lives in that space.
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Guarding the morning. Before headlines and messages, I give the first minutes to breath and gratitude. The day bends in a kinder direction.
A short note on joy
Joy is not a reward for completing a to-do list. It’s not waiting in a particular job, city, or achievement. Joy is an experience of aliveness that visits when I’m present enough to notice. It often arrives quietly—like sunlight moving across a floor. If I give it room, it grows.
A gentle invitation
If tomorrow never arrives and yesterday is truly gone, then this is our chance to live. Not “one day” when we have more time, money, or certainty. Not after we fix ourselves. Now—exactly as we are, with the breath we have, in the life we’re in.
So perhaps today we can pause for three breaths. We can taste our tea. We can be kind for no reason. We can let gratitude sneak up on us. And we can remember, as Prem Rawat so often points out, that the treasure we seek is not far away. It is nearer than near: it is here.
May we meet this moment with tenderness. May we live today all the way.
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