This past Saturday afternoon we spent time moving through ordinary tasks. Folding laundry, paying bills, and general clean-up took most of the day. This routine is something I usually cherish. As my husband and I finished our tasks, we talked about fixing a late afternoon snack.
Our daughter overheard our conversation. Within a span of a few minutes, we heard the rustle of the bag sheltering the bread and the refrigerator opening. I asked my daughter what she was doing in the kitchen, but she said, “I am just checking on something.” As soon as she finished her sentence, the clang of metal hits the sink. My husband and I both start to wonder what she was really doing, but neither one of us made any movement toward her direction.
The next sound we hear are the thump-thump of her feet. She hasn’t quite mastered inside voice or soft feet yet so we always know she is about the make an entry or exit. In her hands, she had a paper plate and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. She said, “I know you were both hungry, so I made a sandwich.” Her gap-filled grin and the echo of pride in her voice choked me up. The unprompted simple gesture caused me to turn my head away from her and wipe away some tears. “Thank you honey. That was so sweet of you.” We both swallowed her with hugs and kisses, while emphasizing that she “cooked” for us for the first time.
So uncomplicated. So simple. And yet so fulfilling. It made me think about how as adults we tend to overcomplicate areas of our own life. What happened to taking the simple approach? What changes as we “grow up”? I am not certain there is a satisfying answer to these questions. But I know there is no mistaking how I filled up inside by something so unlikely. There are, I am certain, so many of these moments in all of our lives. My daughter’s gesture reminded me that I need to be aware of the vastness and grandeur of simplicity.
Image by {N} Duran
I finished. This past Sunday I participated in my second half-marathon. A few days before, family and friends asked, “Are you ready?” It was difficult to answer this question because in all honesty I really never know whether I am ready to run 13.1 miles.
The first few miles are always inspiring. I always notice who runs with me. There were women in pink and yellow tutus, hula skirts, and ones who ran in honor of a loved one. Some ran with their kids, while others sported various shirts reflecting the charities that were dear to them. One man wore a Happy Birthday hat, the number 57 proudly screaming alongside the rim. Running doesn’t discriminate. It appeals to the young and old, the physically fit and disabled, and all shapes and sizes.
As I hit the ten mile mark, my legs ached and the bottom of my feet began to burn. On the right, I noticed the mountains of Papago park. The curved and red formations were extraordinary, but my feet wobbled as I felt the incline under my feet. At that point, I wanted to stop. But I didn’t. I kept moving forward.
That’s what it is all about. Every single time when I run, I feel it. This need to keep moving forward because it is the best way to celebrate life. To embrace breath and acknowledge the ability to run. It’s that simple.
I run because I can.
There are two ways to live your life.
One is as though nothing is a miracle.
The other is as though everything is a miracle. Albert Einstein
Two days ago, every single instance of inconvenience created a churning irritability in my gut. Each one of us has experienced days when we feel everything is a nuisance. Even though there is nothing really “wrong” we channel that energy into a negative mood. Part of me wallowed in this defeatist attitude. My actions replicated what itched in my mind. I admonished my daughter for spilling her milk, my tone in conversations over the phone reflected some speckles of annoyance, and the man who cut me off in traffic caused me to curse under my breath. Everything trivial. But all led to my general bad attitude.
In the midst of this negativity, I don’t know what prompted me to access my camera roll on my phone. As I thumbed through the pictures, I caught a glimpse of a picture that I took before a sandstorm in Phoenix. Even though I’ve viewed this picture a few times, the layer cake in the sky startled me. The raw look at nature jolted my conscience into thinking about gratitude. To truly be consistently grateful, there must be a call to look at everything as a miracle. The incidents that annoyed me earlier in the day could easily be viewed from another perspective. Yes, my daughter spilled her milk. But at least she has the capability of drinking milk from a cup, understanding and appreciating the need to clean it up, and also saying, “Sorry for the accident.” There are children, because of mental or physical limitations, who can’t engage in the most basic of activities. Because my daughter can, that in itself is an ordinary miracle. As much as I was annoyed regarding my phone conversations, just a month ago, I lost my voice and found it particularly challenging to convey my thoughts. But how quickly I forget about those old challenges. I did what was easiest. I gave into the irritation. It is something that comes naturally to all of us. To give in and to forget about what is.
It takes a conscious effort to engage. To really synthesize what it is that surrounds you and what a privilege it is to breathe and sleep and laugh and cry. Even the irritation is an affirmation that you still have the capacity to experience. And that is what I think we miss everyday. The gift of living should startle us and raise our awareness, that yes, it is a miracle.
