The porch swing creaked with every movement. Back, and forth. Back, and forth. I put my hands behind me to catch the windowsill before I slammed into it. Leaves shivered in the face of the coming storm. Clouds rolled angrily across the sky and a drop of rain plinked into the bushes in front of me. Another followed, then another. The drops turned to a chorus, life rushing down to refresh the weary ground.
And I almost missed it.
I’m a doer. Parts of my personality are decidedly Type A. I don’t always stay focused on the task at hand, but when there’s something I need to do, it consumes me until it’s done. I spend so many days with my head down just powering through the next thing. The next to-do, the next confrontation, the next hard week or month or year. I forget to look up and I miss so much.
Yesterday I read forty pages on the immune system. I’ve always had a general idea of what it was but I never really knew how it worked. I didn’t know how hard my body works to defend itself from invaders.
Sometimes it takes something like that to get me to look up and notice the wonder I’m surrounded by. When I do, though, I find it everywhere. It’s the way bacon and feta together explode on my tongue, the way the night sky lights up when lightning cracks from cloud to cloud, the way a storm leaves the air cool and clear.
These moments are gifts. They’re gifts that I’m still learning to count. I’ve watched the same scene unfold from that swing time and time again, but I am still trying to see it. And when I do, I am still captivated by the beauty.
It makes me wonder. What else am I missing out on? What else do I not see because I forget to lift my head?