Lately I’ve been able to feel time in the palms of my hands. It slips between my fingers the way sand trickles through an hourglass. Just as I begin to admire it, it’s already changed.
I’ve been thinking more than usual about my hourglass, especially in moments when beauty startles me: a sunset abruptly snaps me out of a fog, a finger on my skin runs chills down my spine, a butterfly unexpectedly flies by.
Beautiful moments arrive often but suddenly. I sometimes fall so in love with a single one that I wonder how many more remain. Is my hourglass three-quarters full? Three-quarters empty? Would I want to know if I could?
Probably not. Not knowing keeps me alert. If any sunset, any finger on my skin, any butterfly could be the last, why would I take it for granted?
But the truth is that I do, all the time.
MondaysTuesdaysWednesdaysThursdaysFridaysSaturdaysSundays blend together until 365 of them form an entire year. Years form decades; decades form a lifetime.
The moments that structure entire days often feel mundane when they occur frequently and consecutively. But these are the moments that form an entire lifetime.
I have to remind myself of the fragility of it all each day. Every morning I wake into a world that offers its gifts to me and asks for nothing in return. Every day is an opportunity to stand in the way of life’s raw beauty.
A meaningful life isn’t constructed of major, grandiose moments, but rather an attentive awareness to everything that surrounds and interacts with us in a single day.
There’s nothing special about the sound of water running, the site of snow resting on pine trees, the sound of a friend’s laugh, or any of life’s countless beauties unless we’re aware of them.
Nothing is beautiful unless we’re paying attention.