Last night, after double-checking to see if all the doors were locked and if all lights had been turned off, I turned toward the bedroom. At that point, I noticed light pouring through the glass window and bouncing off the floor. I inadvertently paused. I was pulled toward the window. I peered into the sky to see that giant rock floating in outer space, reflecting the sun’s rays. I found myself nearly out of breath. I realized that I had gone days — how many? I don’t know — without even looking up at the moon. Here’s this constant reminder of how odd, how amazing this universe is, and I have become so accustomed to its presence that I often don’t even notice it.
Most mornings, I wake up at least an hour before the rest of the house. I get the coffee brewing, I do some reading, I prepare myself mentally for the morning rush — kids dressed, backpacks packed, shoes on. Once the kids are off, I work. The main types of work I do are very different from one another. But they have in common that I spend a lot of time staring at a computer screen. So I do that all day, then it’s the evening stuff — dinner, time with kids, dishes, bed time.
The whole time, there’s a gigantic stone circling our planet. The whole time, in fact, I’m cruising along on a different, more beautiful stone. I’m cruising along so fast, I forget I’m moving at all. Staring at that computer screen is so important that nothing else seems to matter.
Here I am, walking on a gravel path tonight. I hear cicadas singing their “bug song,” as my youngest son puts it. I see the last of the sun for today. Here’s my view:
A tractor, in the distance, mows down the field, sending the scent of the chopped grass through the air. In a few minutes, I’ll pick up my children, who will do things to make me laugh as well as grit my teeth.
The moon is still there. I remember, for a moment. It will pass; tomorrow I’ll be back in front of the screen, doing important things.
“Enjoy the little things, for one day you may look back and realize they were the big things.”