I took five minutes yesterday to get quiet. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. It felt like 40 and I swear it added a year back to my life. I gained a sense of calm, peacefulness, a centeredness and focus I hadn’t felt in weeks or maybe months. I took that calm with me on a jog and noticed the trees, the signs on buildings, the sun on the water, a homeless man in the woods, trash on the sidewalk, students on bikes and on foot, the smell of fish and chips in the air, of car exhaust and freshly cut grass. Not all of it was poetic or pretty, but I felt the sun on my face, the flush and heat rise to the surface of my skin as my feet pounded the concrete below. I mean, I actually felt it. I actually noticed. I was present, engaged and for that time, I practiced being in the moment.
I kept that feeling of lightness and freedom with me and refused to check e-mail for some time, refused the impulse to review Facebook notifications and when I nursed my son that afternoon, simply nursed him. I studied each eyelash and feather soft blonde hair, I rubbed my hands along his plump thighs, along the curve of back and bottom. I listened to the sounds his mouth made as he suckled. Watched as his eyes focused on something new–studied it, thinking, wondering, trying to form the words and sounds to tell his “mum-mum” all about his new discovery.
I took that feeling of focus, of something greater, the freedom from the minutiae with me that evening as I drove. Classical music playing in my ears, I sat in Seattle traffic. Completely undisturbed by brake lights, my chest swelled to see the purple and blue skyline glazed with brush strokes of gold and pink. Looking into the distance, I saw so many lights in houses, in office buildings, in store fronts and beside me, so many faces passing in cars–many alone–furrowed brows set in consternation. Where were they going? I wondered. Home? A family waiting? To a second job, third job? To a funeral? A birthday party? A first date?
My mind drifted back to my days as a hospital nurse. A slideshow of faces played–faces of the sick and injured whose minds and bodies had betrayed them, faces of concerned family members, of heartbroken and confused children, of infinitely strong spouses. Perspective. I am no longer at the bedside and neither are those patients or their families. Instead, there are other nurses, other patients, other families. I imagine someday it will be me in that bed or a family member or both. It is just the way of life.
But today, it is not. Today, I wake up with my plump baby by my side–watching his mouth twitch in and out of smilies in his sleep. I get to tackle piles of laundry and dishes from last night’s dinner. The day is ours and will go too fast. This is not a perspective I was able to channel just yesterday, although so little has changed. I thank my patients, their families, these memories for the gift of perspective, of gratitude, for the gift of knowing that boring, mundane days are the best days. I thank myself for allowing that quiet to take hold.
Five minutes of solitude, of pushing away the distractions and then holding tight to that quiet…what a gift.