No book? No phone? No problem. Drinking in all the flashes of humanity around you is a joy
foggy glass of the waiting area! When it’s not his turn, I’ll watch the other kids learning to swim! What’s cuter than kids learning to swim?
That worked for, like, 15 minutes. Then I started to look around the waiting area.
I watched a toddler sitting near me catch his mom’s eye across the pool. She was in a mom-and-baby swim session a few lanes down from my son, maybe with the toddler’s younger sibling, and the toddler watched them intently, waiting for his mom to look through the foggy glass and notice him.
When she did, he went wild. “Mama!” he yelled and waved. “Mama! Hi mama!”
She couldn’t hear him. But she smiled and waved. He waved some more and yelled Mama some more.
I cried. Of course I cried. I cried typing this. You watch a toddler utterly filled with joy at the simple sight of his mom’s wave and keep a dry eye.
That got me thinking about all the flashes of humanity I miss when I bury my head in a book or a phone.
So I’ve started looking for moments when I have nothing to do — scratch that, I never have nothing to do. Moments when I can get away with doing nothing.
Waiting for the train. Riding the train. Waiting in an auditorium for a debate tournament to end. Standing in endless lines. Swim lessons.
And I’ve started choosing, during some of those moments, to just be. No reading. No phone checking. No distracting myself from all the humanity flashing around me if I just take the time to look up and notice it.
Sometimes I witness magic. A toddler vibrates with the electricity of his mama’s love.
One day I looked over and noticed a woman wearing a beautiful skirt that looked hand-sewn. It was red and blue and covered in intricate bird cages and lovely white birds. I complimented her. She told me it was Senegalese and it represented the flights we can choose to take when cage doors are opened.
That was a nicer way to start my day than Twitter.
Sometimes I witness not much. The same ads on the “L” that I read the day before on the “L.”
But always I feel a sense of relief. Like I’m letting my mind exhale. Like I scooted over on the couch and patted the cushion next to me. Here, mind. Have a seat. Rest a minute.
I try not to fill the time with mental note-taking of all the deadlines I need to hit, all the emails I need to send, all the parent-teacher conferences, team snacks, birthday party RSVPs and carpool arrangements that need tending to.
I try, instead, to just watch and listen. It’s a different sort of reading, I suppose.
Here’s a thing I’m realizing: Downtime used to panic me a little bit. I would try to give it a mission: Read! Catch up on friends’ lives! Purge email! Check! A! Box! Any! Box!
Now I relish downtime. I look forward to it and I don’t labor over how to fill it because I’m committed to leaving it open.
I find there’s more room for beauty that way. And when you stop and look around, there’s plenty of it to witness.
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