The sad thing is how many people I see around me that simply don’t know the magic and delight the conversations in this group are eluding to. Stuck in the compelling ruts of jobs that must be done, relationships that must be kept, cell phones that must be answered, they miss the very pleasures that bring it all to life.
The sad thing is I’m guilty of the same, and, unlike them, I should know better. Even now, with all my knowing, yet still I rush and harry my way through the day. “Hurry up” I hear myself routinely saying through gritted teeth to my daughters. “We’re going to be late”, a note or two higher as my anxiety levels start to rise.
And then I catch myself and see the habit because habit is all it is. What really matters more than that I notice how my eldest daughter’s hair chooses to curl at the nape of her neck today. What could possibly be so important as to draw me away from the tender kiss of my youngest as she explains to me how the sun tan lotion falls out of the bottle.
The saddest thing is how much I make more important than those gentle moments in each day. How long it can often take me to remember what it is I truly treasure, why it is I’m really here.
And then I rush back into the house, car running, kids in the back, to retrieve my forgotten sweater. And I find a note tucked upon a pile of my discarded pyjamas. “Folded with love” the tiny hand-writing says, a flower drawn underneath. And for a minute, I forget the car and the meeting and hug that pile, letting in all the love inscribed in my bundle, a small tear smudging the note.
The sad thing is in all my habituated hurrying, in all the frenzied focus on getting there I might have driven down the road and missed the very treasures of the journey.
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