before holden, life was rushed. my days passed like the blur out the window of a speeding train, my face pressed against the sill attempting to discern whole objects out of the hazy greens and blues.
life revolved around getting to where i was going. getting to work, getting to the next meeting, getting home to my husband, getting to dinner, getting to bed, a ceaseless list of deadlines.
of course, i enjoyed my life, but i failed to notice all of life around me and truly enjoy every minute.
but holden changed this. he taught me to look at time with slow eyes. we swim in every minute, every second of our waking hours, soaking up every last drop.
almost every time we make our way up the front walk after being away from the house, holden stops me, begging to be put down so that he can draw with chalk, dig in the dirt, or search for and clean spiderwebs off of everything in his sight (his latest obsession).
despite an impending nap, a quickly approaching dinnertime, or the multiple baskets of laundry that seem to be forever waiting for me,
i always stop and play.
we stay at the park slightly longer than initially planned, take the long way home on our morning walks, and leave the light on a little past bedtime.
the true urgency to self-imposed deadlines has been realized. there is no race. there is no finish line.
and through this slowing of time, i’ve discovered things about life…
that we live directly under a flight path meaning that airplanes fly overhead nearly every ten minutes, that the swaying trees look like a rippling sea when the wind blows and it’s slightly mesmerizing to watch, that you can always find a bug or insect no matter where you are, that the moon is out during the day more often than you think, and that those extra ten minutes in bed reading in the morning are worth more than you think.
so these days, when my body sinks into the bed at night, my mind isn’t racing with whats, whens, and whys
because each and every day is enough.
oh, cleaning and scrubbing, but children grow up, as i’ve learned to my sorrow. so quiet down cobwebs. dust go to sleep. i’m rocking my baby. babies don’t keep. – ruth hulbert hamilton