It’s the “family reunion feeling.”
It feels like Grandma’s house. And tastes like chocolate cake and sweet tea. It smells like fresh cut farm grass in the summer. It sounds like a house full of conversation, Yahtzee dice on a wooden kitchen table, Christmas music.
It’s the feeling of being present.
Of going two days and realizing you haven’t charged your phone. Of thinking of nothing or no-one but what is right there, right now. And it is bliss.
I think about this sometimes when my 8-year-old says, Mo-om. You’re not listening. Did you hear what I just said?
I didn’t, I reply honestly. Because I was — well, where I am too often —
Lost in a world of pre-occupation. Of to-do lists. Of what’s for dinner and did I respond to that text? And this house is a mess. And then suddenly, I miss the lizard that has captivated my first-born. It has scampered away, along with the opportunity to share a moment of magic with my boy.
So I have been trying to be more mindful. More intentional. More present.
But for me, it’s not totally a matter of the will. More-so, it is the recognition of the environment that makes being present most possible. Both the external and internal environment. The state of my home and the state of my mind.
The first case in which I find being present more possible is when I close all the windows. By that, I don’t mean the literal windows — I mean, the “screens” that feel like windows into an outside world that my mind so easily leaps to. When I am in the middle of text conversations all day, I find that my mind can be stuck there. When I am checking the internet too much — or blogs (hello!) — or news (never a great idea) — I find that a piece of me stays there. But when I shut them off, when I power off, I feel a very literal quiet come over me. An instant focus. For a piece of me that was there is now here. Scheduling time for screens of all kinds helps me be present the rest of the time.
I also find that unloading some thoughts onto a piece of paper with the scribble of an inky pen helps. It keeps me from having that “I need to do that” feeling on loop. It lets me take the thoughts of what I need to do and what I haven’t done and place them in a box for safe keeping. I can come back to that later. For now, I focus on now.
Other thoughts that can keep me from being present are needless human worries, the what if’s and what might’s of life. I love the advice of one of my favorite spiritual writers, Father Jacques Phillipe, who says:
“Things seldom happen as we expect. Most of our fears and apprehensions turn out to be completely imaginary. Difficulties we anticipated become very simple in reality; and the real difficulties are things that didn’t occur to us. It’s better to accept things as they come, one after another, trusting that we will have the grace to deal with them at the right time, than to invent a host of scenarios about what may happen — scenarios that normally turn out to be wrong. The best way to prepare for the future is to put our hearts into the present.”
And in throwing my heart into the present, I am trying to accept the interruptions of life. To see them, as perhaps, not interruptions — but interventions. Most of my plans are not urgent. Whether I wash the laundry now or later isn’t of great monumentality (though it is good to make sure everyone has clean undergarments). Whether I finish weeding all the garden beds this weekend or next, or mop the floor before company, and so on — really, who cares. What people care about is how they feel when I am with them. Fr. Phillipe continues,
“In every encounter with someone else, however long or short, we should make him feel we’re one hundred percent there for him at that moment, with nothing else to do except be with him and do whatever needs doing for him. Good manners, yes, but also real, heartfelt availability… A heart preoccupied by concerns and worries isn’t available to other people. Parents should remember this: children can get along happily without constantly demanding their parents’ attention, provided there are regular times when Dad or Mom have no concern except being with them.”
I am always asking God what his will is for me today — and then, when I am interrupted from what I am wanting to do, I am put off. Well, what better way for God to tell me what he wants me to do than to have my child ask me? Or my neighbor? Or my friend?
And so today, I take time for stillness. For observation. I give myself a moment (or many) to soak up this life like a cat does the sunshine.