Being Still

We spend our lives worried about all that we need to do, and what we’re supposed to be doing with each day that might be more productive. But there’s something to be said for waiting. For being still.

I wish I could go back and enjoy the things—or the people, mostly—that I miss. Like most humans, I took those opportunities for granted. I might have even pushed them away. Maybe I had to go to work. Or do something that, at the time, I believed was more important.

I know it wasn’t.

Once we look back, we see clearly what’s passed before us, and those times we didn’t allow ourselves to feel what we had deeply enough.

All we’re left with is memories. And I’m not sure it’s enough.

I spent a lot of beautiful, sunny days (and some cold, cloudy days) sitting at Beavertail in Jamestown, Rhode Island, watching the water crash against the rocks.

This painting makes me think of those days, especially the ones spent with my parents. My kids (the grandkids) were little. My father still alive. And I don’t know if this is true or not, but I have a feeling there was a point I’d look at my watch and say it was time to go, even if we had nowhere to be.

I’m sure the sun hadn‘t even set.