6. Once in a Lifetime (and Never Again)
I enter the portal. I am in front of The Sky Cabin.
The candle makes a soft noise. Perfect Music plays through my invisible speakers.
I step inside and see my books. I feel warm by them. Recently, I hung a picture in the cabin—me and a mentor of mine. It feels perfectly fitting.
What now?
I write a blog post.
It’s been a few days since I entered The Sky Cabin. I’ve been busy lately, but now this is my time.
Here, I can rest and recover. I do so as I type these words slowly.
It’s meditative and restorative.
And I have to say—Perfect Music really helps set the atmosphere around here.
On Perfect Music
Although I’m a violinist by profession (or perhaps because of it), I don’t listen to violin or classical music in the cabin. That kind of perfection is of a different sort—it’s not restorative in the way I need it here.
For me, restorative music means fingerstyle guitar. Slow banjo music also works beautifully when I want the sound that helps me recover.
But I can also find rest and recovery without any music at all—and I often do. The candle, scented or unscented, is what truly sets the atmosphere of the cabin.
And since I can bring a candle with me anywhere, I’ve learned to enter The Sky Cabin from different places, successfully.
The Reflective Part
Now, onto the heart of this post—the reflective part.
After typing those words above, I already feel ready to reflect. Reflection itself is restorative to me—perhaps not for everyone, but it is for me.
Lately, I’ve been reading The Book of Ichigo Ichie by Héctor García and Francesc Miralles. In a sentence, the book is about savoring the present instant, because there will never be a moment exactly like it.
So if I’m writing, I will never again write on this same date, at this same time, while this exact part of Perfect Music plays, breathing these same air particles.
Does that matter? Not the oxygen part, maybe—but what matters is the level of attention I give to this moment.
When I’m in flow, I may not even be aware of what I’m doing—because I am the doing. But I can pause for a sip of water and notice the privilege of this instant: I’m healthy, not in a hospital, but here, writing. I smell the perfect scent of this candle. I exist in this unique now.
And how is that different from gratitude? It isn’t. The difference is that Ichigo Ichie invites us to stop—to savor the instant itself. To stop everything: our thoughts, our flow, even our progress—for just a second—to taste life as it is.
Time and Change
I’ve thought about this before, because the Stoics share a similar idea (I’m a mentor at the College of Stoic Philosophers).
The day before one of my children’s birthdays, I often feel melancholic. They will never be seven again—or nine. That’s it. We’ll never ride our bikes again as a father of thirty-nine and a child of seven. From tomorrow on, it will be thirty-nine and eight.
And those are just numbers… but not really. An eight-year-old will soon be in a different grade, with new experiences. The bike ride will always reflect who we are at that exact moment, and our interactions will change—not in a bad way, necessarily, but they will be different.
One day we won’t play Lego anymore.
So today, I savored that.
And I have a confession: I didn’t want to play Lego. But I remembered—it was now or never. And after that Ichigo Ichie moment, I enjoyed it much more.
Time paused for a second. The beauty of that moment embraced me completely.
I get to play with Lego.
I get to share this time with the humans I helped create.
How cool is that.
But of course, this idea isn’t only for time with family or kids. You can be alone and still savor this moment.
Because every instant, even this one, is once in a lifetime.
Ritual
From the Shelf: The Art of Simple Living — Shunmyo Masuno
Grain of Wisdom from the Sandglass:
“To the world: your harmony is mine. Whatever time you choose is the right time.
Not too late. Not early.” — Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 4.23
What the Candle Said:
“Do it today. Do it now. There might be no other time.”