Sometimes in the scheme of life, it is hard to remember that our lives are filled with days and our days are filled with moments. Small moments, at that. Sometimes it is the smallest of moments that we overlook in our quest to conquer the larger ones. We forget what it was like to eat our piece of breakfast toast complete with melted butter and strawberry jam, just five minutes after the fact. And all because we are too rushed as we head out the door to make it to work on time. We forget that little moment where a small child smiled shyly at us, an invitation for conversation to be initiated, in our rush to get to the lunch room, staff room or library.

We fail to notice things.

Today, I was driving into the Walmart parking lot, a place I would not associate with beauty and poetics. But as I was pulling in to the stop sign, I noticed two sea gulls overhead playing a game of tag with one another. They swooped and spun and dipped and dove. Around and around in circles they moved like professional synchronized dancers. And after a moment or two, I looked to see if anyone else noticed the pair.

Low and behold, someone did. A Walmart employee, out collecting carts haphazardly left here, there and everywhere was watching their antics as well. Instead of watching the birds, I began to watch him instead. I was struck that in the monotony of his task, he had found something beautiful to occupy a brief moment of his time.  I wondered if it would sustain him as he went about the rest of his shift.

I am betting on yes.

Tonight, I am reminding myself: it is the smallest of moments that fill our days and draw us out. It is these moments that truly change our lives. Not drastically or quickly. Not fundamentally. No, all seems the same.  But it is the mundane moments of living that slowly shape us into the people we are to become.

{Earlier} The air is crisp and chilly, a mere minus 7 degrees. Almost feels balmy with the late evening sun shining.  My get-up gives it away: this is not summer weather.  Nor am I dressed in beach attire. I am instead wearing wool mittens with fleece lining, two pairs of pants, a wool sweater and a down-filled, heavy parka. I have a toque on my head and I am wishing right now for a scarf to wrap about my neck even as the wind laces its icy fingers around the bared, exposed skin.

My daughter and I are playing a brisk game of two-player baseball on the far lawn, the one facing the barn. This game consists of my throwing the ball (badly) and her missing the pitch.  We are both trying to have fun. Even with the suns rays, I think this might possibly be the coldest weather in which I have ever played this summer sport. I hate to bend over as it feels even colder when I do.

Daughter is delighted when the ball makes contact with her bat, a satisfying crack, which forthrightly places the ball on the other side of the driveway, over by the well. She calls to her daddy to look at how far it’s gone. And then she squeals with delight.

I am reminded again of the cold as I trudge off to retrieve the ball, wondering to myself as I walk how much longer this little game will go on. I can think of about a dozen things I should be doing.  And a nice quiet walk would probably be the first on my list.

Then I remember:this small moment of my life is important, and it is significant. It is something I will never regret having taken time to do. I can never have this moment back again, cannot do it over.  So I must choose right.  I head back again with ball in hand, across the cold, hard pavement while wind chases my hair.

And I say to my daughter, “…let’s see how far you’ll hit it this time.”