Babylon 5 was one of the best SF TV series, ever. (Firefly was better, but then Firefly is better than anything.) It had a five year story arc, fabulous characters, and even if I think J. Michael muffed the ending a bit, you really ought to take a few months and watch the whole thing. You won’t regret it.
But one particular episode has always stuck with me—the ship’s doctor encounters a traumatic event and decides to go walkabout in the station, which is big enough that this is feasible. His religion advises this, he tells another character. Every now and then you’re supposed to go wandering through the world until you meet yourself—metaphorically, of course. Then you’re supposed to experience this moment of incredible cosmic understanding. The episode’s climax ends with him being knifed in the lower levels of the station, a vision of himself appears to him…and rips him up one side and down the other for running off from his job, for his failure to deal with the trauma, for everything he’s done wrong in his life. Himself tells him that he’s not even worth saving, and he drags his bleeding body toward the access port where he might find help, murmuring, “I want to do it again. I want another chance. I want to do it again.” The whole episode is full of the intelligent, humorous irony that made Babylon 5 so wonderful, but it’s the final line that stays with me. The doctor, mostly recovered, goes to dance with a woman in a bar, and tells another character, “The moments are all we have.”
I think the reason this lingers in my mind, is that the more I know the truer it gets. Life, real life, is a series of moments in which we exist, right now. The past is certainly there to be learned from, and hopefully remembered fondly. The future should certainly be planned for, and worked toward… But right now is it. Right now is all we’ve really got. So as I struggle to get my revision done, despite some business chaos and the dog coming down with giardia, I try to remember to take the moments as they come. I watch birds at the feeder, feel the cool breeze coming over the field beside our house, and cuddle my poor good dog on my lap. I make time for coffee with a friend, and help my mom with her computer. I grant myself time to go to a movie, or play a video game.
Honestly, I’m not sure whether the revision, and all the other things I “should” be doing are the better for this or not. But I know I’m better for it, saner and happier—at least, in this moment. And after all, the moments are all we have.