Yes, I know my mind is a fickle little bee doting on a thousand thoughts, but I’m getting better at chasing my mind back to the moment

so I can see the spiderwebs making hammocks the color of the moon. My son tries to photograph a rainbow outside the car window. It’s impossible,

of course, this wonder, the trying to hold it. But I do what I can. I’ve stopped waiting to enjoy the cinnamon tea. I take deeper breaths and listen

to the flutter of strings floating down from café speakers. I don’t want to be a pilgrim of memory anymore. I want to pop the champagne and salute

this now, and this one with soft brie, dried apricots, and the sunset celebration another anniversary of light while I eat fists of grapes the same shade

and sweetness of night. Congratulations, Time. Look at you and your gorgeous minutes full of everything. Three cheers for the temp agency that hired this

particular day, these particular clouds, this set of honking geese migrating through it. I want to be better at being alive, so I’ve been picturing my heart

as a fox—which means wild and nocturnal, not terrorizing the neighbor’s chickens. My love says most equations in quantum field theory give infinity

as an answer, which is not meaningful because all infinities are the same. In that case, let’s stop reaching so hard for it. I’ll take this infinity’s morning where

my son and I confused falling leaves for monarchs. Every time we thought we saw a butterfly, it was just a leaf with the gentlest falling. We laughed at

every mistake, and he said, That was a beautiful confusion. Sometimes when the moment doesn’t offer a praying mantis on the porch or a charismatic sky,

I imagine my heart is my son’s face, and I am back in love with the day, its astonishments like hot-air balloons, and the daily present of power lines strung

with starlings like dozens of music notes. Let me be more bound to my living in each moment, be held by this hum, that cloud, this breath, that shroud.

From The Atlantic via this RSS feed