On this Sunday Morning, I think not of the back-to-school meetings that have passed, of the 30 or so reviews for my book Cold Rock that are now trickling in, of the passing anniversaries of my father’s birthday or his marriage to my mother 62 years ago, of the many meetings with students and parents and teachers that have focused on all the right things in this early school season, of my younger daughter’s first days in preschool and her first practices in soccer, of my love for autumn.
I think not of any of those things.
I think of This Sunday Morning. The possibility of love and of life suspended in each drop of dew that droops from tired Black-Eyed Susans and Butterfly Bushes outside my window. The magic of the many micro-moments that make up this single passing second, this moment, this chance to smile and to listen and to cherish simply what is.
This Sunday Morning. This Sunday Moment.
It is good to be back here.
In this Moment.
With all of you.