The Gift Of An Ordinary Moment
This morning, in the midst of all the horrific news both here and abroad, it’s a quiet day in the hayfield cottage. I’m working on a Soul Plan reading. The cats are snoozing — on the Mewpurrvisor’s shelf, on the cat tree, in the tumbled quilts on the bed.
It’s quiet outside: there is nothing but the thin, faint buzz of late summer crickets and the occasional squawk of blue jays.
I went to the kitchen to pull laundry out of the dryer and put it away. Folding Carle’s jeans, I got a deep sense of time — such an ordinary thing, but will I remember the perfection of it twenty years hence, when he may not be here? If he is folding his own trousers because I have died, will he think back twenty years to when we were an “us?”
There was a huge wash of gratitude. For the peace of our lives in this present moment, for the comfort of the relationship, for the quieting of intensities that comes as one ages, for the deep recognition of Now.
Perfection can be anywhere. Magnificence doesn’t need a brass band. Sometimes, even in the midst of chaos and the inability to see what lies ahead, Life can bring you a profound gift, made up of nothing more unusual than a simple object and an everyday chore.