There is an old Chinese saying: “今朝有酒今朝醉” — which means, don’t think too much, just enjoy the pleasures of the present moment.

In Western culture, there is a similar expression:

“eat, drink, and be merry (for tomorrow we may die).”

Today, “living in the present” has almost become a modern mantra. Everyone says it. Everyone posts about it. We often equate it with momentary indulgence or the idea of seizing the day.

But when I first came into contact with Buddhism, I gradually realized that the true meaning of “living in the present” may be something entirely different from what we usually understand.

I have a friend who has always loved adventure and the thrill of the unknown. But a year after giving birth, she shared with me:

“Since having a child, it feels like I’ve stopped thinking altogether. My body and mind both feel trapped.”

Almost every story she tells now begins with those words—“Since having a child…”—and what follows is often a sense of loss, regret, or quiet despair.

Beneath her tone, I could hear what she really wanted to say: this past year has been defined less by what she gained, and more by what she feels she has missed.

You might wonder, what does her story have to do with living in the present?

Actually, her situation is far from unique. Many of us fall into the same mental trap.

It reminds me of a metaphor I often use: life is like a game of resource exchange.

We trade our bodies and our time for money. We trade our attention for skills, our skills for income, our knowledge for influence. Some even trade everything they have for the growth of another life.

But the body inevitably weakens, and time, once gone, never returns. That’s why we are constantly faced with the question: Where should I invest my limited energy and time—into A, or into B?

The trouble is, many times we choose A, but end up with C—an outcome we never wanted. Then the mind begins its “what if” game: If only I had chosen B, surely I would have gained D, something far better.

Take an example: someone gives up her career (A) to focus on raising a child, but ends up feeling lost (C). She then imagines that if she had chosen to pursue her career instead (B), she would have found success and fulfillment (D).

It sounds convincing. But is it really true?

In truth, this chain of cause and effect doesn’t actually exist.

D is not an objective outcome at all—it is a deluded projection of the mind, what the Buddhist teachings call illusory thoughts and clinging distinctions (妄想分别).

Just as we once romanticized C when choosing A, the mind now embellishes D when longing for B.

“妄想蔽心，失于本性” — “When illusory thoughts cloud the mind, one becomes estranged from their original nature.”

Interestingly, neuroscience echoes this ancient insight. Whenever we imagine the future, replay the past, or fabricate scenarios in our heads, the brain’s Default Mode Network (DMN) becomes highly active.

Research shows that chronic DMN overactivity is closely linked to depression, anxiety, and a persistent sense of self-doubt. It dulls our sensitivity to the present moment and erodes our connection with ourselves.

At the same time, these imagined threats can activate the amygdala, triggering cortisol release. Even without real danger, the body remains in a state of chronic stress—leaving the mind increasingly conditioned to seek threats and regrets, and pulling us even further away from the living reality of the present.

• You publish an article on Mirror, but the views fall short of your expectations. Doubt creeps in: “Maybe my ideas aren’t good enough?”

• You read an analysis of future trends and feel anxious: “What if I can’t keep up? Will I be left behind?”

• On Lens or Farcaster, you see someone else’s success story and begin to compare: “They’re ahead, while I’ve achieved nothing.”

• You scroll through the news, see negative reports, and instantly picture disaster as if it were already here.

• You think about tomorrow’s meeting or exam, and your mind runs worst-case simulations.

These moments are precisely what Buddhism calls “illusory thoughts clouding the mind” (妄想蔽心).

They appear real, yet they are no more than the moon’s reflection in water, flowers in a mirror (水中月，镜中花).

• Another person’s success is nothing more than a mental montage you’ve edited in your own head.

• The crisis you imagine—before it ever manifests—is simply a self-produced illusion, a private theater of the mind.

• The frightening future scenarios you picture are like VR projections: vivid, yet nonexistent in reality.

• Other people’s opinions of you are but inner fabrications, a commentary invented by the mind.

• Even the images and feelings of the past are reconstructions of memory, not the actual truth.

As the Buddha said in the Diamond Sutra:

“As a lamp, a cataract, a star in space, an illusion, a dewdrop, a bubble, a dream, a cloud, a flash of lightning—view all created things like this.”

(一切有为法，如梦幻泡影，如露亦如电，应作如是观)

When illusory thoughts cease, the true mind reveals itself.

As the Buddhist saying goes, when your mind is no longer dragged by fabricated images—or when such images do arise, you can clearly recognize: this is only an illusion, not reality. The moment you stop feeding these illusions with new material, you begin to touch the genuine present.

Illusions exist only within the mind—and nowhere else. The moment you allow the mind to rest, ceasing its endless fabrication of images, that is the moment you enter the present.

You’ve probably experienced such moments yourself:

• Painting, when your whole attention rests on the brush.

• Swimming, when breath and movement fall into rhythm.

• Writing, when words flow without interruption.

• Gaming, when you are fully immersed in play.

Or in daily life: practicing yoga, running, cooking, or simply sharing a deep conversation.

In those moments, the mind finds no room to fabricate illusions. Body and mind move as one. What remains is ease, clarity, fulfillment, and quiet peace.

That is the present moment.

I believe each of us has known such moments.

Yet the instant we step away from action and hand the stage back to the mind, illusory thoughts and projections inevitably reappear, quietly taking hold.

This is why “living in the present” is never just a slogan, nor a fleeting indulgence of “eat, drink, and be merry for today.” It is a capacity that requires deliberate practice.

I often remind myself with three simple words: awareness, non-following, and returning.

• Awareness — See clearly what is real and what is illusion. “If one simply knows illusion as illusion, one is already free from it.” (若人但能知幻，即复离幻)

• Non-following — Once you see through it, don’t feed it. Especially when emotions surge, remind yourself: “this is illusion; I don’t need to keep building the story.”

• Returning — Gently bring attention back to the breath, the body, the now.

What’s even more fascinating is that across ancient traditions and modern disciplines, I’ve found practices that echo these three steps.

Perhaps this shows that returning to the present is a wisdom shared across cultures and times.

In Buddhist practice, meditation, vipassanā (insight), and walking meditation train our capacity for awareness.

In the yoga tradition, Asana and Pranayama (postures and breathwork) help us return to the body and the present breath.

From the perspective of neuroscience, mindfulness meditation has been shown to weaken our habit of following the mind’s automatic reactions.

In everyday practice, single-task focus and flow activities weave this training into daily life, allowing us to naturally return to the present through action itself.

• Walking meditation: Pay attention to each step—lifting, placing, lifting, placing.

• Breath awareness: Observe the rise and fall of your abdomen, without control.

• Single-task focus: Choose one ordinary activity and do it with full attention.

• Flow activity: Immerse in painting, writing, or music—let action quiet the mind.

Whether in stillness or in motion, each moment can become an entry point for practice.

Pause here. Take a deep breath in, then slowly let it go—

and you may realize: the present is already here.

There is an old Chinese saying: “今朝有酒今朝醉” — which means, don’t think too much, just enjoy the pleasures of the present moment.

In Western culture, there is a similar expression:

“eat, drink, and be merry (for tomorrow we may die).”

Today, “living in the present” has almost become a modern mantra. Everyone says it. Everyone posts about it. We often equate it with momentary indulgence or the idea of seizing the day.

But when I first came into contact with Buddhism, I gradually realized that the true meaning of “living in the present” may be something entirely different from what we usually understand.

I have a friend who has always loved adventure and the thrill of the unknown. But a year after giving birth, she shared with me:

“Since having a child, it feels like I’ve stopped thinking altogether. My body and mind both feel trapped.”

Almost every story she tells now begins with those words—“Since having a child…”—and what follows is often a sense of loss, regret, or quiet despair.

Beneath her tone, I could hear what she really wanted to say: this past year has been defined less by what she gained, and more by what she feels she has missed.

You might wonder, what does her story have to do with living in the present?

Actually, her situation is far from unique. Many of us fall into the same mental trap.

It reminds me of a metaphor I often use: life is like a game of resource exchange.

We trade our bodies and our time for money. We trade our attention for skills, our skills for income, our knowledge for influence. Some even trade everything they have for the growth of another life.

But the body inevitably weakens, and time, once gone, never returns. That’s why we are constantly faced with the question: Where should I invest my limited energy and time—into A, or into B?

The trouble is, many times we choose A, but end up with C—an outcome we never wanted. Then the mind begins its “what if” game: If only I had chosen B, surely I would have gained D, something far better.

Take an example: someone gives up her career (A) to focus on raising a child, but ends up feeling lost (C). She then imagines that if she had chosen to pursue her career instead (B), she would have found success and fulfillment (D).

It sounds convincing. But is it really true?

In truth, this chain of cause and effect doesn’t actually exist.

D is not an objective outcome at all—it is a deluded projection of the mind, what the Buddhist teachings call illusory thoughts and clinging distinctions (妄想分别).

Just as we once romanticized C when choosing A, the mind now embellishes D when longing for B.

“妄想蔽心，失于本性” — “When illusory thoughts cloud the mind, one becomes estranged from their original nature.”

Interestingly, neuroscience echoes this ancient insight. Whenever we imagine the future, replay the past, or fabricate scenarios in our heads, the brain’s Default Mode Network (DMN) becomes highly active.

Research shows that chronic DMN overactivity is closely linked to depression, anxiety, and a persistent sense of self-doubt. It dulls our sensitivity to the present moment and erodes our connection with ourselves.

At the same time, these imagined threats can activate the amygdala, triggering cortisol release. Even without real danger, the body remains in a state of chronic stress—leaving the mind increasingly conditioned to seek threats and regrets, and pulling us even further away from the living reality of the present.

• You publish an article on Mirror, but the views fall short of your expectations. Doubt creeps in: “Maybe my ideas aren’t good enough?”

• You read an analysis of future trends and feel anxious: “What if I can’t keep up? Will I be left behind?”

• On Lens or Farcaster, you see someone else’s success story and begin to compare: “They’re ahead, while I’ve achieved nothing.”

• You scroll through the news, see negative reports, and instantly picture disaster as if it were already here.

• You think about tomorrow’s meeting or exam, and your mind runs worst-case simulations.

These moments are precisely what Buddhism calls “illusory thoughts clouding the mind” (妄想蔽心).

They appear real, yet they are no more than the moon’s reflection in water, flowers in a mirror (水中月，镜中花).

• Another person’s success is nothing more than a mental montage you’ve edited in your own head.

• The crisis you imagine—before it ever manifests—is simply a self-produced illusion, a private theater of the mind.

• The frightening future scenarios you picture are like VR projections: vivid, yet nonexistent in reality.

• Other people’s opinions of you are but inner fabrications, a commentary invented by the mind.

• Even the images and feelings of the past are reconstructions of memory, not the actual truth.

As the Buddha said in the Diamond Sutra:

“As a lamp, a cataract, a star in space, an illusion, a dewdrop, a bubble, a dream, a cloud, a flash of lightning—view all created things like this.”

(一切有为法，如梦幻泡影，如露亦如电，应作如是观)

When illusory thoughts cease, the true mind reveals itself.

As the Buddhist saying goes, when your mind is no longer dragged by fabricated images—or when such images do arise, you can clearly recognize: this is only an illusion, not reality. The moment you stop feeding these illusions with new material, you begin to touch the genuine present.

Illusions exist only within the mind—and nowhere else. The moment you allow the mind to rest, ceasing its endless fabrication of images, that is the moment you enter the present.

You’ve probably experienced such moments yourself:

• Painting, when your whole attention rests on the brush.

• Swimming, when breath and movement fall into rhythm.

• Writing, when words flow without interruption.

• Gaming, when you are fully immersed in play.

Or in daily life: practicing yoga, running, cooking, or simply sharing a deep conversation.

In those moments, the mind finds no room to fabricate illusions. Body and mind move as one. What remains is ease, clarity, fulfillment, and quiet peace.

That is the present moment.

I believe each of us has known such moments.

Yet the instant we step away from action and hand the stage back to the mind, illusory thoughts and projections inevitably reappear, quietly taking hold.

This is why “living in the present” is never just a slogan, nor a fleeting indulgence of “eat, drink, and be merry for today.” It is a capacity that requires deliberate practice.

I often remind myself with three simple words: awareness, non-following, and returning.

• Awareness — See clearly what is real and what is illusion. “If one simply knows illusion as illusion, one is already free from it.” (若人但能知幻，即复离幻)

• Non-following — Once you see through it, don’t feed it. Especially when emotions surge, remind yourself: “this is illusion; I don’t need to keep building the story.”

• Returning — Gently bring attention back to the breath, the body, the now.

What’s even more fascinating is that across ancient traditions and modern disciplines, I’ve found practices that echo these three steps.

Perhaps this shows that returning to the present is a wisdom shared across cultures and times.

In Buddhist practice, meditation, vipassanā (insight), and walking meditation train our capacity for awareness.

In the yoga tradition, Asana and Pranayama (postures and breathwork) help us return to the body and the present breath.

From the perspective of neuroscience, mindfulness meditation has been shown to weaken our habit of following the mind’s automatic reactions.

In everyday practice, single-task focus and flow activities weave this training into daily life, allowing us to naturally return to the present through action itself.

• Walking meditation: Pay attention to each step—lifting, placing, lifting, placing.

• Breath awareness: Observe the rise and fall of your abdomen, without control.

• Single-task focus: Choose one ordinary activity and do it with full attention.

• Flow activity: Immerse in painting, writing, or music—let action quiet the mind.

Whether in stillness or in motion, each moment can become an entry point for practice.

Pause here. Take a deep breath in, then slowly let it go—

and you may realize: the present is already here.