I sit here now in a quiet house, taking a break from a handful of projects at varying points of completion. Next to me is the fifth antique dining room chair that has now been repurposed as a part of our entry hallway vignette...it just needs four felt pads to cushion its place. I moved it to the carpet because one little guy decided it was the perfect thing to push around, cutting thin shallow paths through the sea of cherry wood. And then there are the Megablocks scattered like seashells across our eat-in kitchen that connects to the family room where their container is stored beside other toys. Inevitably as soon as I pick them up, the littler little dumps them back out. It's this little game we play and right now, I'm choosing to ignore the multicolored mess. The washing machine is churning; the dryer adds its white noise. I wonder about making some meals to lighten my after-work load next week, and what should be ironed to make mornings easier. I consider the stacks of resources in my basement I would like to organize, as well as the binders, papers, and books upstairs.
Then I look outside. Kids bike past, racing home from the pool down the street. Pets and their owners stroll by, noticing the intricacies of neighborhood yards. Leaves dance; I imagine their hushed symphony. Every once in awhile the sun peeks out, making light earth's handiwork.
And I'm still.
Typically, my weekend looks more like rewarmed weekdays with checklists, timeframes, and calendar reminders. Today, however, I push them aside and celebrate the time to notice, to name, to truly see.
And the view is nice.