The Tiny Magnificent Moment
A few days ago I was caught up in a whole bunch of things that merged together to provide perfect meltdown territory. A herniated disc pinching on the sciatic nerve like a mother, a consultant who was more interested in my years of education rather than paying attention to my pain, or listening to my clear, concise words. Two projects with inflexible deadlines, and a six month old puppy who had exploding diarrhea at 3am, two nights in a row.
I was on my hands and knees, clearing up the mess the (big) little guy had trodden through the apartment, reassuring him that he wasn't in trouble, and I just felt like I wanted a few minutes out of my body. To have some moments where I could taste something other than tiredness. To remember Before, when there wasn't constant pain. When there was ease. And space. And breaths that felt like chances.
A few hours later, with no sleep and a full schedule, I was making my chai, and I turned and looked at this adorable ball of fluff who was staring intently back at me, and something shifted.
There I am, with bloodshot eyes and no pants (because I don't want the CBD oil to rub off on anything) wondering how I'm going to get through the day, and suddenly I just understood that I'm not supposed to get through it. I'm supposed to be in it.
I'm not talking about gratitude for painful lessons (just, no) or what doesn't kill you makes you stronger (just, don't) or that we attract all the things that we still need to work through (please can the spiritual BS bubble burst already).
But, I had this moment of understanding. Something about slowing and witnessing. Something about the tiny, magnificent moment holding everything.
And today, I am thinking of how everything can change in a heartbeat. How great grief or great comfort can rush in and envelop you. How the living is fluid, not fixed. And how everything can be altered, simply by two beings, locking eyes, and just being there in a moment together.