I picked, pickled, snapped, and froze vegetables from our garden much of the day today. My hands are wrinkled and my thumbs are sore from shelling beans. The kitchen is hot from having three burners running full-throttle on the stove. Greg has spent his Saturday wrestling with a trencher reburying dog fence and throwing down with the car in order to change the thermostat.
As I trudged around cleaning up the disaster-stricken kitchen after my brief bout with domesticity, I realized something. It’s one of the last warm days of the year. The windows are open. I can hear the kids calling to each other outside as they play peacefully. The sun has washed everything with that particular golden glow it distributes in early fall.
I stopped in my tracks and smiled to myself while I savored the moment. These kinds of scenes, while omnipresent in sappy movies, are very rare in real life.
Those fleeting instants, however scarce, are very powerful. They forcefully remind me how happy I really am under the stress and the rushing and the day-to-day aggravation. Those are the moments that remind me of everything I have and how incredibly fortunate I am.
And that is when I remembered that the stress and rushing and day-to-day aggravation made that moment possible.
I wish I could have frozen that minute of time so I could revisit it again, take it out of my pocket and hold it close whenever I need it. But if I could do that, it would lose its power and I wouldn’t recognize another of those moments when it comes again.
So my memory of it will just have to do.