10/27/2023 0 Comments This Moment is GoodThe shower head in our new home has been dripping.
Not consistently, but sometimes. When? And why? I think I figured it out but… I’m not sure. It's the kind of drip that hunts down wandering minds in the wee hours of the morning and lures them down dangerous paths. “Can I fix this? Do I need to call a plumber? How much money will this cost? How much money is this costing us right now? Small drips add up to gallons… how much was our recent water bill again? This could cost us millions.” It's two in the morning. I walked over to the bathroom. I'm awake, on edge, and standing in my underpants beneath the dimmest light I could turn on, staring at my new archenemy: the dripping shower head. I'm convinced this shower head is sentient now. It knows what it is doing, and it is evil. It has the goal of subtly breaking us financially over the course of our lifetime, and it's relying on my procrastination to do so. My defense? Kinda being able to fix things while voiding warranties, mangling my hands, and potentially making things worse in the long-run. What am I supposed to do at this hour? Turn off the water to the house, get out my wrenches, and loudly clang around in the bathroom in order to make the whole house as miserable as I am? And what if I make things worse? I can see it right now: One quarter turn of a 13mm wrench and all the fire hydrants in the Western United States blow open, foundations collapse, and a small hurricane forms in the Pacific Ocean. This seems like a bad idea too. So instead, I reached over and counterintuitively twisted the shower handle a fraction of a centimeter toward the “on” position. The dripping stopped. The battle seemed to be over. Already? I assumed this was some sort of trick that the shower was playing to lull me back to sleep before it continued driving up the water bill, so I laid back down in bed and started scrolling around on my phone with half of my attention on what I was reading and the other half listening for drips coming from the bathroom. Nothing. Silence. Whatever I had done had apparently worked. I slowly fell back asleep. I realize that this story is silly. But it’s a silly instance of being unsettled that is a part of a larger mosaic of unsettledness that has decorated this year. And I know this isn’t unique to me. There has been a clawing sense of uncertainty about what will be brought with the next year/month/week/day/moment. “What’s next?” I don’t know. I can’t know. “Will everything work out?” I don’t know. I can’t know. And despite being blessed with one of the most successful and smooth moves in the history of moving, my brain doesn’t want to take a breath. It doesn’t feel like it’s allowed to. It’s helplessly listening for the next drip coming from the shower. ... I had a pending “Thank You” note to send to my grandmother. In the clutter and mayhem of moving boxes and random sundries, our collection of thank you notes had gone AWOL. After riffling through some garage boxes, I finally came across a blank card from a local (Alaskan) art shop that I had purchased partially because it was beautiful, but mostly because I sensed the shop owner’s eyes following me as I browsed and felt an obligation to buy something. Anyways, after days of delays, the card was written and ready for its trip to my grandmother – a trip that would start with a brief walk down the sidewalk to the mailbox. “Tomorrow.” I thought to myself, as I sat the envelope on the chair in the entryway. Well, "tomorrow" happened to bring the first day of winter to us in our new home. A light scatter of fresh, wet snow fluttered though the overcast sky. The crisp air sat at exactly 32 degrees Fahrenheit. The snow wasn't accumulating much, and it could mostly be seen on the roofs and windshields of the neighborhood, with a thin layer barely covering the shorter blades of grass. It was negligible, but it was beautiful nonetheless. The arrival of winter made me more excited for my little trek to the mailbox. I threw on my thickest hoodie and my knit cap and stepped into the mild sting of the freezing air. As I strolled down the wet sidewalks with my cheekbones questioning my decision, I had a passing thought: “This moment is good.” I quickly responded (internally, of course) with hesitation: “No, ignore that… there are too many upcoming problems and to-do lists to take a break from the uncertainty now.” But with quiet confidence and calmness, I heard it once more: “THIS moment is good. Enjoy THIS moment.” I looked down at the brittle little branches of some recently planted trees. And I looked up and squinted at the blare white of the sky. And I looked across the quiet sidewalk though the sparse flakes of snow in front of me. For a moment, there were no other moments to be concerned about. There was just that moment. And that moment was good. This isn't a new thought, of course; It and its paraphrases have been copied and pasted onto every single piece toilet decor that Target sells. However, when the thought strikes naturally, it feels like it means something. Will the shower drip again? Probably. Will the paint start to peel? Eventually, I’m sure. Will some of my plans fail? Will my loved-ones be lost? Will I keep making mistakes? Yes. Yes. Yes. All these moments should be responded to appropriately. But there are so many moments that could be good, if I would let them be good. This moment can be good.
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