Isaac slid a note under my office door. It was around 6:30 am, and he knew he I was likely in the thick of my morning magic rituals. Inherently and thoughtfully seeking not to disturb me during this sacred time is one of the many qualities I admire about my 11-year-old son.
Earlier that morning I had slid a note under his door to tell him that I loved him. He replied, “Thanks. I love you too. BTW I farted on this paper. Happy Flatulences, Isaac.”
Normally not a fan of bathroom humor (it’s truly the lowest, cheapest form of humor, if we’re being honest), I couldn’t help but laugh. A deeply serene smile formed at the edges of my lips—a moment of sweetness in a string of seemingly mundane moments that make up our daily lives.
I’ve kept this note on my desk for a week, a silly reminder of the tiny sparks of magic that form the wildfire in our hearts—the fire that keeps us aligned with our values and committed to our best lives. The fire that inspires us to expand with abandon, ever evolving into a higher version of ourselves.
When I told Isaac I felt he was growing up too quickly—a sentiment I think all loving guardians share—he pragmatically replied, “I’m growing up at the same rate as everyone else, Mom.”
A fleeting moment that is now but a memory. Quickly spoken and even more quickly evaporated into the ether of our mind’s cluttered landscape; memory stacked upon memory in a tangled web of elysian flashes and sparks.
Watching him grow has been one of my life’s most supreme lessons—a constant reminder to be here now, ever a moment away from the end.
From time to time I catch myself living in the next moment, spending more time making plans than living life, falling prey to crippling anxiety, overwhelming stress and the fear of uncertainty, taking myself—and life—all too seriously. It’s in notes like these, slid quietly under doors just before dawn, that I remember to wedge myself in this very instant, to surrender to it’s fullness.
All too often I find myself “just trying to get through the day,” before realizing with stark clarity that once the day is through, it’s one less day that I’m breathing, one less moment of magic on this spinning rock.
In those periods of clarity, I notice.
I feel the reverence in a cool ocean breeze and give myself fully to the sound of waves crashing, the smell of salt in the air. I watch my little boy sleep—just to be sure he’s still breathing—as I stand in awe of his expansion. I walk, not with eyes glued to my cell phone, but darting instead from plants to clouds, colors to shapes—taking in the world around me with the knowledge that it will never again be as it is in that very moment.
A note slipped under a door in the early hours of a late September morning. A heart bursting with the potency of presence.
A keepsake to remind me that getting through the day is nowhere near as exquisite as being in the day.