Night games and shooting stars

 

One evening at our family reunion while I was napping the other parents played night games with the kids.  I heard repeatedly about the favorite experience—tossing the kids into the air on a blanket.  Child after child got the experience of being bounced in the air on a blanket held by parents, aunts, uncles, and cousins.

 

(awesome picture taken by my awesome brother Jeff)

The next night one of my sisters asked the other, “Do you think that we should play games again tonight?”  And that sister wisely said something like, “magic moments only happen every now and then—I don’t think we should force it.”

 

The first night that we were here at the beach I sat in the hot tub talking to Ann.  The almost full moon and scattered clouds caused the night sky to be unusually light and there were few stars visible.  As we were talking I noticed a bright light moving above the horizon behind Ann.  It was big and kind of slow and at first I thought it must be an airplane or a satellite.  After another moment I realized it was a shooting star—huge and slow moving in the pale night sky.  It was beautiful.

Usually I have a hot tub protocol.  I put my hair up so that it won’t get wet and wear my glasses so that I can watch the sky.  As we sit and talk I scan the night sky, enjoying the stars (and the occasional planet), but always watching for a shooting star. 

My initial response when I saw that shooting star the other night was along the lines of “oh, I’ll have to run get my glasses on so that I can see other shooting stars, I wouldn’t want to miss any.”

But then I had another thought.  The shooting star was magical—a gift in that moment.  Somehow it seemed that the anxious pursuit of another would diminish the experience that I had just had.

 

I’m not very good at savoring the moment I’m in, especially the incredible moments, without immediately wanting more.  Another bite of fabulous chocolate, another exhilarating wave to ride, another snorkeling trip, another late night conversation.  Just like a greedy child, I always want another.

I’m trying to turn over a new leaf.  A new leaf that takes a step back and controls a little less.  A new leaf that understands that I’ll be happier if I fully cherish the moment I’m in without desperately reaching for more.   A new leaf that trusts that there is more magic ahead…

 

 

PS—how ironic that I should just run into this cartoon online…