All These Years, My Life Left Me Secret Notes

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They started when I was a baby. The first one wasn’t written, it was spoken, from my grandmother’s lips to my mom’s ear, but it brushed past me as she held me. It goes fast, she said, enjoy this time.

I heard her, but I didn’t speak English yet. I was more interested in the feeling of her breath on my cheek, and the sound of her voice in my tiny ear. I suppose you could say I enjoyed it. I was certainly captivated. Those were days of endless noticing even if I had no idea that it was my life, or even life. It was simply a sensory fest all day every day.

But time wore on and soon I had a brain that lived among the raucous swirl of imagination rotating in a cloud above my head more often than in the quiet receiving line of the here and now. The quieter the head, the fuller the present moment. I became someone who had little evidence to prove a day had just passed. It was more theoretical than actual — something to do with the sun, or the fact that I’d just woken up. Maybe this is why my life started writing me secret notes and leaving them in random places. They always had a similar message.

Stephanie, pause. Pay attention. Notice the way the leaves move just so, then don’t think. Just take it in. See your child’s face when he’s proud or laughing. Stay in the moment longer than you think you can. It’s rarer than you know. Don’t move on so quickly from your mother’s text. Look at the picture of her orchids — and this connection with you. Take it in. This goes faster than you realize.

As with everything, I remembered to stay in the moment a few times, but busyness resumed, and my attention rose back into the swirlie cloud of all-the-thoughts or sank into deep holes of investigation. Thinking and searching is so fun — fascinating and curious — but I suppose one day I’ll wish I’d savored life’s here-and-now for just a little longer.

But I’ve known how to do this for many years. Long ago, I found a secret note taped to the metal bar of a Brooklyn playground swing set. I noticed it right after settling my firstborn into a baby swing. I yanked it off the bar.

Stephanie, slow down. Notice the love more than the responsibility. See the beauty in your son as much as you see the myriad ways you take such good care of him. This baby will grow. This time will pass in such a flash that it almost already has.

This shook me, not only because it was news I didn’t want to hear, but because I’d already intuited this many times. As serious people in the world — parents of kids, professionals with heavy responsibilities, caretakers of the ill — it’s so easy to keep a tunnel vision focused on our role. It’s necessary but it’s not our 24/7. Sometimes there’s a shift for the better when we step back, notice, and quietly absorb. This is where we have a bigger view, cull learning, and live a better life. More so, noticing the world in front of us like a baby would — with simplified awe — begets gratitude decades down the line.

That day in Brooklyn I slipped the secret note in my back pocket and started to devour the tickly joy from my baby son’s hysterical giggles. Every time the swing curved him back up to me as I stood in front of him making silly-goofy faces, I enjoyed the moment with full awareness.

Because I dropped my focus on successful parenting and switched to simply enjoying the time with my baby son, I not only logged that moment deep into my long-term memory but also set off on a mode of parenting that continues to this day — being with my kids instead of being perfect for them. In retrospect, it worked out like a beautiful dream.

These days I’m cultivating the habit of occasionally stepping back and taking it all in, which requires awareness in the moment to choose to do it and then doing it — three valuable skills: knowing, choosing, doing. And there are so many fascinating things to see.

Sometimes I step back and notice the scene in public settings where little kids to older adults have their heads bent over their phones. To me, this is fascinating. If I look at it without judgment, I feel like a visitor on another planet, or perhaps I’m viewing a new species of primate uniquely adapted to a small gadget. They are the most useful creatures to me. As soon as I see them, I throw my phone in my purse and zip it shut. I want to live here, on this planet, and see it, know it, feel it, and gape at it wonderstruck.

Speaking of this planet, I’ve stepped back and taken it in countless times. This place is quite the shock and can easily unfold a tightened mind accustomed to ruminating or calculating. There are the animate and inanimate here, and both are quieting when I stop to receive them. It doesn’t take much.

There were intricately patterned clouds yesterday as I walked across a big parking lot to my car. I walked with my head tilted way back which also tripped my step, which got the man walking towards me to giggle, which got me to giggle back, which led to my self-effacing joke and our shared laugh, which led to him passing me by with a smile and me gawking back up at the clouds with a grin. The moment was swift — the stunning clouds, the silly me, the darling man, the human exchange. I took it in and felt warm and grateful for my love of nature, people, and these positive moments in life. They’re not always like this — not in the least.

Speaking of the least, the last several days I’ve been battling anxious and sad feelings from mostly inconsequential situations. Being in battle is being in a mind swirl — fast and furious, in circles. Then it occurred to me to pause and guide myself through my assumed truths and options. Just the pause alone opened me up to receive. It was a slowing down and a taking in. Even before I started to work on seeing things differently, taking the time to quietly notice myself was the end of the battle.

My life continues to leave me secret notes in various places. The notes have grown tattered over the years, as they are often the same message repeated. I recognize them more readily now and I hope they keep coming. I’m grateful to my life for this wisdom. You’re a smart one, Stephanie. Thank you.

Note from Stephanie: You’re welcome.

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Have a nice week, friends.