I’m sitting on our small couch, feet up on the ottoman, lights out, Christmas tree on. From this spot, I can see the TV, the fireplace, outside through one of the small windows, the whole living room – all of those things now quiet and dark. From this spot I have rested, nursed three babies, cried, slept, laughed, worked, and watched. Gazed out at children running around the room, the seasons changing outside, and my life passing by faster than I can imagine.
From this spot I have sat very still with three sleeping babies in my arms (each at different times), looking down at their cherub faces, curled up fists, and listening to their sweet sighs. As I sat here in this spot, I looked outside and observed every season change. Marveling at bare trees showing fuzzy patches of green, bursting forth in swaying leaves, turning gold, yellow, red and blowing away. Squinting hard to find the first snowflakes of winter silently floating down. Gazing down at my youngest child – messy toddler hair sticking to her sweet cheeks, thumb in her mouth, hard sleep weighing on my arm.
In this spot, the moments of my life are performed before me as I struggle to grasp them. Snapshots in my mind play out – if I am still enough to capture them. Yet I am not usually still. I spend less and less time here in this spot and somehow, I am sure that I am missing it all. Someone please tell me it is not too late…not too late to sit here quietly, smiling, holding on to these three. For in this spot – this quiet, comfortable, ordinary spot, I have experienced more life than I have ever before and wonder if I will ever again.