There are days, like today, when, on a walk with my dog, wrapped into a restless blanket of a balmy breeze, my mind sways along with countless blades of grass around my self-walking feet.  In a moment like this, I am not moving, I am being moved. In a moment I have zero interest in the past: I would not want to trade in a moment of present for any day of the past, whether I rocked it or bombed it; I know there is absolutely no point in trying to re-live anything. And in a moment like this, I have almost zero interest in the future.  I used to read about moments like this – for example, in Knut Hamsun’s Pan – and I used to wonder about how to get there. And I have gradually realized: it’s not about getting there, it’s about getting here. I feel neither bored nor desirous: I feel like I’ve had enough, had plenty, had a lot. In a moment like this I want absolutely nothing – and that’s exactly what I want: nothing. No, it’s not some kind of passive suicidality; on the contrary, it’s active contentment.