“To pay attention, this is our endless and proper work.”
— Mary Oliver
On most days, I’m on the go—
Moving from one thing to the next: chores, a bit of reading, teaching a class, writing something halfway, watching a show I’ll forget by morning, squeezing in a walk just to feel vaguely accomplished.
It all moves—not frantically, but steadily. A rhythm. A hum.
And then—bam!—a moment lands.
Totally unannounced. No RSVP.
Like finding those you love most sprawled across a library floor, nestled among stuffed animals and board books, gently turning the pages of picture books, communicating in the soundless, sacred language of love.
I felt something stir. A stillness.
I took a photo or two.
And much later, when I looked at them again, I knew what it was I had felt: presence.
Some of the most profound moments happen when you least expect them.
There’s no moral lesson. No grand epiphany.
Just… presence.
The grandchild isn’t trying to ask or explain.
And the grandfather—my husband—isn’t instructing or distracting.
He’s simply there. Watching. Witnessing.
Studying the face he loves. Listening—without a word.
No rush. No agenda.
Just time, stretched wide with curiosity.
This, I’ve come to believe, is the joy of observation:
Noticing something fully.
Not through analysis or evaluation, but through tenderness.
Through awe.
I often tell myself to be more observant.
To really attend—with my heart.
Sometimes I do.
Other times I forget.
(And then, I forget that I forgot. The monkey-mind-in-training !)
But then a moment like this arrives.
And I remember.
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