Snapshots of contentment

A young friend was trying to paint a picture of one of those perfect days, “You know.  Like it’s 70 out and we’re just hanging out on the deck and the kids are playing.”  I knew exactly what she was talking about and agreed that those are some of my favorite days to be a part of.  In fact, I was feeling that way right there at my kitchen table on that lazy Friday afternoon as she was talking to me, early fall, big kids back in school, a breather from all the responsibilities, burdens, and cares we sling around with us as moms, a refreshing couple of hours, just the six of us, no place we needed to eminently rush off to, catching up from what we’d missed this summer, laughing, and just knowing each other.  Splendid.  Of course I know what she was talking about.

Her sentiment has stayed with me this week, and I’ve thought of so many other times where I’ve felt at one with the world and—as my sister always says—in my happy place.

And so I started making a list.  I thought I’d have a few highlights from my life, days that stood up a little taller than the rest.  But after two pages, I realized it’s just life. They’re everywhere.  And every day.

When we pay attention, when we put away our phones and decide to just take a mental shot instead, when we decisively allow ourselves this moment, it’s quite humbling to note how many opportunities we have to feel this quiet peace, this happy-place feeling.

It was noticing Andrew on the wooden swing under a leafed-out summer tree, just talking to his girlfriend in the warm afternoon away from the ears of his family, alone with her voice, warming my heart to its core.

It’s a little time-out, a pause in my day, when my mom or a sister or a friend calls. Sometimes I’ll just sit down at my special table, so happy for some time with my puzzle.  But I’ve also curled up in my plush, brick red chair my dad made years ago.  It’s textured, velvety stuff, still soft and caressing after all these years.  I’ve spent so many hours just cradled in its arms, bridging the span of miles and weeks while I gaze out at the spring leaves or the gathering snow listening to some of my favorite people.  Heavenly.

It’s seeing the kids or my sister so comfy and cocooned.  One of our living room couches is cornered with windows all around it, showing off glittering leaves shaking in the summer breezes or branches littered with first snows.  The perfect napping spot.  I point it out to my visiting sister, who claims it every day, agreeing that it’s the ideal spot for her siestas.  There is nothing more relaxing than the clatter of everyday life going on around her while she rests.  I totally know the feeling.  I feel myself smiling as I settle into my naps there myself.

It was walking along the shore in Oregon, early morning or at dusk.  The seals, the shells, the fishermen, the kids.  Barefoot, carrying our shoes, getting our legs wet as we both avoided and chased the waves.  The sand was warm; the air, cool.  Coming home to our rental and cooking dinner for real and cuddling on the couches.  No distractions or places to go.  Just being together as a family maybe one last time before college started up again.  I paid attention.  And sighed with emotion.

It’s being around to watch the kids do their things.  I’m not a runner, but my kids are.  And so I’ve loved the cross country meets at the lake.  So many trees and fallen leaves, breezes and voices. I just love watching my kids enjoy themselves, to see them interacting with their classmates and friends, to note how grown up they’re becoming, to see them trying to outrun themselves, to be out in autumn with friends.

It’s late nights in bed with Todd watching a movie on our little DVD player.  I know we could go downstairs to the big tv, but this is so much better: cozy, close, nestled, propped up, sleepy.

It’s walking with my mom around the graveyard on early summer mornings before anyone is up.  I have cherished these times for years and years and sometimes it occurs to me that one day it will change. And even though we can’t go as long as we used to, I think I appreciate these slower walks more each time I visit.

It was so many summer nights last year, interspersed with some Saturdays, during which we turned the radio up loud and simply painted the house with our brushes.  All the kids working alongside us, dogs running around, each of us taking a turn on the ladder, moving around the exterior and taking note of our progress.  At the time we grumbled, especially the kids.  And when we had to have all the siding ripped off and replaced, we complained a little more.  But I only look back on those times with fondness (and a little questioning), grateful for the family time we had before Avery went off to college.

It’s long walks with Todd.  I texted him last Friday at work, asking if we could walk around the Country Club later on since we once again had the night to ourselves.  Always up for any semblance of time away and alone together, he agreed.  We meandered up and down the hilly streets, commenting on improvements we’d make if we owned the houses, comparing yards and rooflines.  The sun faded and twilight settled in.  His arms produced little goosebumps, it felt like fall.  But our hands were warm, entwined as they were.  The kids were all away for the night and so we had nothing to get home to but the honey harvest.  We lingered a little longer.

It’s hotel room stays as a family. Todd and me in one bed, the kids all huddled together in the other until it’s time to sleep, all tuned in to Myth Busters or Home and Garden, doesn’t matter, we’re just happy to have tv channels.  We’ve learned to bring microwave popcorn, and they still like to try out the pool and hot tub, even at this age.  A cold and dark respite during a mid-summer road trip or a cozy, soft retreat after an evening walking the snowy small-town streets decorated for the holidays.  I fall asleep easily on these nights, so comforted amid the bodies of all my people.

It’s watching the Alaskan documentary with the grandparents on a late Sunday night, all in agreement that this is what our family does. Not even having to negotiate or ask if everyone wants to watch this, a given. It’s every Sunday night with popcorn and ice cream.  It’s knowing that this is what will happen, just like our Sunday night walk.  It’s having traditions like these as our cornerstones. 

It's making jam, picking raspberries, playing games, walking in the snow, harvesting the garden, eating dinner on the back deck, curling up with a book, cuddling with our dogs, decorating for the new season.

And so I’ve tried to figure out what it is.  What is it about these times, these memories, that create a contented feeling, a temporary respite from our worries and concerns, a wash that centers me and allows me to breathe and remember that this is the stuff that matters?  That life is good.  That it’s not all heavy.  I’ve realized most of these memories were just pieces of regular life.  They were simple times.  Most didn’t cost a thing. Almost all of them were with people I adore; although sometimes it felt good just to be alone.  Easy, ordinary, carefree, spontaneous. An awareness is all it is really. I wonder how it would lift our spirits if, instead of always reaching to take pictures of what we’re doing, we just used our minds instead, if we gave more of our attention to the experiences themselves. I admit I’ve probably missed out on some photo ops, and maybe I’ll wish I had taken more pictures.  But as I recall these random occasions, and so many more just like them, I’m grateful I took note and that I was present enough to have captured the moments forever in my heart instead.