My voice gets quiet in this space. Hushed amidst the chorus of amazing writers I follow, an eclectic collection of incredible women whose posts rock my world, whose insights inspire my imagination, and whose words land softly on my soul.
So I keep my distance from the keyboard, waiting for something really profound to want to be written. Waiting for an aha moment to reveal something great and insightful. Waiting to write something important, something that really matters.
As if writing about little insignificant details isn't worthy.
Like the gentle rise and fall of my baby's chest as she naps peacefully, snuggled right up next to my leg.
Or the black cat curled up across the room in a brilliant pool of sunlight, basking in its May warmth.
The way my girls delight in eating berries outside in the sunshine, getting lost in the savoring of each juicy bite.
How each time the breeze embraces the pear tree, the yard is filled with fluttering cream petals spinning and twirling their way to the ground.
Or the perseverance and enjoyment the girls can get from the simple joy of putting one foot in front of the other across a scrap 2x4, wobbling off and getting back on for another go.
These exquisite, ordinary moments that capture my attention and appreciation, surely they aren't the material of really inspiring writing. But when I take a moment to follow the thread of those life altering, perception shifting posts that I love to read, when I let their messages sink in and go full circle, isn't their purpose really to guide us into coming back here, to this moment? Aren't they really just priming us to settle a little more comfortably into our experience and enjoy the beautiful unfurling of time? I think that's got to be the point, to enjoy the little things, the big things, everything. Nothing is insignificant.
So I keep my distance from the keyboard, waiting for something really profound to want to be written. Waiting for an aha moment to reveal something great and insightful. Waiting to write something important, something that really matters.
As if writing about little insignificant details isn't worthy.
Like the gentle rise and fall of my baby's chest as she naps peacefully, snuggled right up next to my leg.
Or the black cat curled up across the room in a brilliant pool of sunlight, basking in its May warmth.
The way my girls delight in eating berries outside in the sunshine, getting lost in the savoring of each juicy bite.
The way the clouds gather in growing clusters above the mountain ridge in the distance.
The rustle of the dried tall grass in a gust of wind that hush my thoughts for a moment, like the whisper of a lullaby.
How each time the breeze embraces the pear tree, the yard is filled with fluttering cream petals spinning and twirling their way to the ground.
Or the perseverance and enjoyment the girls can get from the simple joy of putting one foot in front of the other across a scrap 2x4, wobbling off and getting back on for another go.
These exquisite, ordinary moments that capture my attention and appreciation, surely they aren't the material of really inspiring writing. But when I take a moment to follow the thread of those life altering, perception shifting posts that I love to read, when I let their messages sink in and go full circle, isn't their purpose really to guide us into coming back here, to this moment? Aren't they really just priming us to settle a little more comfortably into our experience and enjoy the beautiful unfurling of time? I think that's got to be the point, to enjoy the little things, the big things, everything. Nothing is insignificant.