The leaves are changing. Which means I have begun doing something humans are remarkably good at. Thinking about when they will be gone. I look at a beautiful tree and part of my brain immediately says: Enjoy it. It won’t look like this much longer.
Technically true. Not particularly helpful. Because if I’m not careful, I can spend so much time thinking about something ending that I stop fully experiencing it while it is still here.
We do that with more than leaves.
A beautiful vacation starts and we think about how quickly it will be over. Children reach one stage and we immediately start anticipating the next. A good weekend arrives and by Sunday morning we’re already thinking about Monday. Someone we love is aging and sometimes our fear of eventually losing them begins occupying space in the relationship we still have.
We can begin grieving moments before they have even finished happening. I understand why. When something matters, we want to keep it. And once we understand that we can’t keep everything, sometimes we start preparing ourselves for the loss.
Maybe if I think about the ending now, it won’t hurt as much later. I’m not convinced that works. Mostly, I think it means we experience some losses twice. Once while imagining them. And again when they actually arrive. Meanwhile, today was sitting right in front of us.
Presence asks something different. Not denial. Not pretending things last forever. Quite the opposite. Presence recognizes that they don’t. And because they don’t, this moment deserves to be lived before it becomes a memory.
That feels different to me.
Behind the puddle, I know this particular autumn day won’t happen again. The leaves will never be arranged exactly this way. The light won’t hit the water at precisely this angle. These exact birds won’t be sitting in these exact places. The temperature will change. Tomorrow the wind may take half the leaves I’m looking at today.
I could be sad about that. Or I could look at them. Really look. There is a difference.
I think about the girls that way too.
I know they’re growing. I know there will be a last sleepover when sleeping at Grandma and Grandpa’s feels exciting. A last time they ask for something in exactly the way they do now. A last childhood adventure that none of us recognizes as the last while we’re having it. Knowing that could make me terribly sentimental about everything. And sometimes it does.
But maybe the better response isn’t trying to memorize every second. That’s impossible. Maybe it is simply being here for more of them. Put the phone down occasionally. Listen to the entire ridiculous story. Watch what they’re trying to show me. Notice who they are today instead of wondering who they will become.
Presence doesn’t require us to make every moment meaningful. That sounds exhausting. Some moments are boring. Some days are frustrating. Some conversations are mostly about what everyone wants for dinner. Ordinary life is still ordinary life. But maybe presence means not requiring a moment to become special before we decide it deserves our attention.
October doesn’t have to be spectacular today.
The puddle doesn’t have to provide a story. No wildlife needs to perform. Nothing remarkable needs to happen. This day is already happening. That’s enough reason to be here for it. There will be time to miss this season when it is gone.
Today, it isn’t. So I think I’ll try not to leave before it does.
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