Last night we put our computers away and snuggled on the couch, engrossed in our respective books, his a Michael Crichton, mine a Jodi Picoult. Everything felt perfect - the warm fireplace, the soft blanket, the freshly baked banana bread, the cold water, the stolen kisses.
With our computers set aside, my mind's usual frenetic pace calmed. There was such peace in being fully there in the moment.
I need more moments like that.
Moments like yesterday afternoon, where we took our boys (and our books) to the park. The boy found a friend to run around with and some water to splash in. The baby laid on the grass, sampling the local vegetation. We read our books and watched our boys. I chuckled when the boy's new found friend pulled off his wet pants and underwear in the middle of the playground - much to his own mother's consternation and embarrassment. We stayed until the boy came to tell us he was ready to go home, rather than rushing him along like so many other visits to the park.
Moments like our recent outings to the farm and to the aquarium, hurried only by the voice over the loudspeaker announcing 15 minutes until closing. Looking at what we wished, no agenda, no timetable, no preset plans.
Moments like last weekend, a neighbourhood block party several blocks long. The boy clutching my hand on one side and a balloon in the other. The baby nestled in our mei tai, still on my front despite his height, hair-puller that he is - but all the better, I decide, as I inhale his sweet baby smell and kiss his soft baby cheek. We stand in line so the boy can have his turn jumping in the bouncy castle. The line is long, the day hot, but his delight was oh so worth it.
I want to fill our summer - and then fall, winter, spring, on and on through the years - with moments like these. Unhurried moments filled with peace. Fully present. Intentional. Deliberate. Life lived.