Behind the Puddle

Some days behind the puddle, absolutely nothing happens.

At least nothing that would make much of a story.

The birds come to the feeders.

A few geese may wander through the yard.

The fountain keeps running.

Pinecone might make an appearance, although apparently Pinecone does not feel obligated to maintain regular visiting hours.

The dogs go in and out.

Cars occasionally pass on Lake Shore Drive.

I sit in my chair.

And the puddle is simply the puddle.

There was a time when I probably would have considered a day like that uneventful.

Now I am beginning to wonder if uneventful and unimportant are two very different things.

Because most of our lives are not made from the big moments.

There are birthdays, weddings, births, deaths, graduations, vacations, celebrations, illnesses, losses, beginnings and endings. Those are the days that receive photographs and announcements and permanent places on calendars.

But between all of them are thousands of ordinary days.

Days when we make coffee.

Feed the birds.

Ask someone what they want for dinner.

Let the dogs outside.

Complain about the weather.

Send a text.

Sit beside someone we have sat beside hundreds of times before.

Nothing remarkable happens.

Until someday we realize how remarkable it was.

I think that is one of the things this little patio behind the puddle has changed for me.

I don’t always need something to happen anymore.

I don’t need Stella or Stanley to fly in.

I don’t need Shelly to cross the puddle.

I don’t need Pinecone to perform some ridiculous squirrel maneuver that gives me something to write about.

Sometimes I can simply sit here.

There is something surprisingly difficult about allowing an ordinary moment to be enough.

We are so accustomed to looking ahead.

What are we doing later?

What’s happening tomorrow?

What needs to get done?

What are we waiting for?

Meanwhile, the life we were waiting to live may already be happening around us.

Maybe presence isn’t about appreciating every second or somehow becoming perfectly mindful of our lives.

Maybe it is much smaller than that.

Maybe every now and then it is simply noticing:

I am here.

You are here.

This is happening.

And for this moment, nothing else needs to happen for it to matter.

Someday I probably won’t remember this particular August morning behind the puddle.

But I am beginning to understand that a life doesn’t have to be remembered moment by moment to have been fully lived.

Sometimes being here for it is enough.