It smells like wood smoke here. There are reflections of trees in the water, bits of yellow and orange contrasted against a gray sky. In the distance a dog barks. Below, the river sleeps. The movement of water is so gentle it could deceive you into thinking it’s not moving at all, just breaths of wind along the surface. 

I come to this swing to think. I try to write, but oftentimes I’m distracted by the oldness of this place, the hills folding me in, the quietness. All of it makes me miss my dad. I’m not sure why. Quietly beautiful things make me think of him. Maybe that’s what I’m always unconsciously striving for – to be the type of person who loves the simple, ordinary things. To see God in the crisping leaves beneath my boots. To see Him in the warmth of my dog’s brown eyes as he sniffs the air. To feel Him.

Life doesn’t leave much room for thinking, does it? I wake up in in the morning and from the moment I snap on the lamp, my eyes squeezing shut from the brightness, I am running. I run to catch the bus, to get to my desk, write that email, wolf down some lunch. I practically sprint to the trolley in order to come home with Tommy and cook dinner, wash dishes, plan for the next day. And maybe if we’re lucky we’ll squeeze in an episode of The Office and a walk around the block with Snoop. 

There’s just not a moment left to sit beneath an orange sky and let your hands grow numb from the chill. Not much room for breathing between all that work. All the commitments. The worry about money and the future, where you’re supposed to be and what you’re supposed to do. 

In childhood I didn’t worry about such things. Each day came on its own, the same sun peeking through the blinds, and I was happy to meet it. There was no thought as to what I’d do next month or next year. I accepted what life was and devoured books by the fireplace without care of how we were paying for the pinto beans and cornbread for dinner. 

My adult life feels like an unending pursuit of more time, but I’m starting to realize that I don’t really need more time, just better time. My life in its distilled form is little more than the result of how I spend the time I’m given.  Scrolling my phone? Rolling my eyes over the latest news headlines? Heaven forbid. There are far more worthy pursuits.

There are elements of life that can’t be taken out to make room for others – like washing clothes or scrubbing dishes or buying groceries. They are sturdy and true and here to stay, but why do I let myself be so distracted by making dinner that I forget to taste the ingredients?

One of my favorite parts of the day is walking to the bus stop in the morning. For those four minutes it’s just me and the day, me and my thoughts. In the summer the sky is still dusky when I walk, the air sweet and warm, the breeze brushing my dress against my legs. In the winter the snow absorbs even the sound of my own breath. I dream over the smoke coming up through my neighbor’s chimney. I imagine myself staying home, curled on the couch, taking an unnecessarily long time to drink a pot of Irish Breakfast. 

And while I can’t stay home with the latest Kate Morton novel (someone has to pay for those pinto beans), sometimes imagining is about as good as doing. For me, appreciating the small things in those few stolen minutes will have to be as good as spending an entire day at the park. I’d rather be the type of person to love what I’m given than begrudge the sky for raining rather than shining. 

As my bus crosses the bridge into the city, I can savor the pearl pink light as it stretches across the water. The morning moon as it dangles over Mt. Washington, its face fading against the growing light. I can wrap my hands around a peppermint latte and enjoy the warmth, even with my brain at work. I can be present for those things. The things that make life nuanced and rich and beautiful. 

It’s getting colder here. My fingers are stiff as they try to type these words for you. I’ll have to go in soon, maybe make that pot of Irish Breakfast. But until then, I will just enjoy this moment. Take in the details – the sounds of Tommy tossing sticks into the fire, Snoop nosing through the tall grass, a four-wheeler grumbling in the distance (this is West Virginia, after all). And be thankful for this time.

All the while, the river below me continues to exist, unhurried and unbothered. Content to be a home for fish, a drink for the deer, a reflection for the sun. The hills will continue to roll, thick with trees. And tonight the moon will come. Each part in its turn for us to enjoy.