I almost didn’t come outside.
Yesterday was frozen, after all. All night the rain beat me awake, and I forgot to bring socks to the monastery. I assumed
coming outside would be a mistake. But surprise greeted me when I opened the front door. The storm had left behind a winter warmth and the trees dripped birdsong. I cradled my body onto a porch swing, and the monastery bell rang 5 times.
Into my lungs, a cup of curling steam breathed with a silent hum. The air around us clean of cedar pollen, everything tasted better than yesterday. I sunk into a scone stuffed with thick, cold butter.
I would have missed this.
If I hadn’t opened the door.
If I hadn’t let myself be surprised.
If I’d let myself assume.
If I hadn’t seen what this day could become.
“I would have missed this” is a phrase I learned from educator Julie Bogart. She talks about a time she felt too busy to get down on the floor and play with her young child. But she did anyway and found a world of delight. The phrase, for her, became a mantra, a call, a reminder to stay present to the ordinary wonder of her children. For me, it’s become a reminder to stay open to the possibility of being surprised.
A squirrel in a tree interrupts my thoughts, chittering at me to get off her porch. Every squirrel I ever meet I name Mary. This Mary probably has nuts buried right underneath me. She probably assumes I’ll take them from her. She probably wishes I hadn’t opened the front door.
She chatters awhile, then quiets and climbs onto a higher branch.
Maybe she stopped assuming.
Maybe she opened the front door of her attention.
Maybe
she let herself be surprised.
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