Continuing my journey of *entering* into life, instead of standing on the sidelines trying to control it, took me on a surprising and quite transformative adventure this week. This unexpected experience beautifully illustrated how surrendering to the present moment can lead to profound insights and genuine connection.
I was heading out for my daily walk—that peaceful ritual I've come to cherish—when I happened upon my neighbor who is a single mom with a precious 1 1/2 year old boy. Her expression immediately conveyed a mixture of relief and desperation when she caught sight of me. She gasped, her eyes wide with hope, and said, "Leslie, are you available to watch my sweet boy today? My sitter just cancelled—she called this morning with a terrible fever—and I absolutely have to leave for work in fifteen minutes."
Normally, I would have politely declined with a sympathetic smile and a well-rehearsed excuse about my carefully planned schedule. My default response would have prioritized my own agenda and comfort zone. But that particular morning, through what felt like divine timing, my first client session had been cancelled due to illness, and the rest of my day stretched before me with unusual openness. In a split second of clarity, I remembered my heartfelt commitment to embrace what's right in front of me—to step into life's unexpected invitations rather than reflexively backing away—and I heard myself respond with genuine enthusiasm, "Sure, I'd love to watch him. Don't worry about a thing."
Granted, he and I already have a special bond that's developed organically over many small interactions—we invariably start giggling the moment we catch sight of each other, sharing an inexplicable connection that transcends the usual adult-child dynamic. As he gently woke up within minutes he'd enthusiastically hopped into his stroller, eager for whatever adventures awaited. Off we went together, both of us heading into the beautiful unknown of an unplanned day, neither of us knowing exactly what would unfold.
As we strolled along, I found myself reminiscing about those early, somewhat disorienting days after adopting my daughter. Back then, I had absolutely no idea what to do with all those hours stretching between her waking and nap time. The expanse of unstructured time felt simultaneously daunting and precious. It took a surprisingly long while to slow my adult rhythm down enough to match hers—to appreciate the wonder in simply watching ants march across the sidewalk or the delight in hearing the same story read aloud for the fifth time in a row. Years later, when she began going on playdates and developing her own social life, I found myself once again unsure of what to do with that newly empty time. Funny how the pendulum of parenting swings—first we yearn for a moment's peace, then we miss the constant companionship when it gradually slips away.
These days, my life is entirely mine to schedule as I see fit. I decide precisely what I do, when I do it, and exactly how I want to approach each activity. My time has become exclusively my own once again. But here I was, unexpectedly stepping into a toddler's wonderfully unpredictable world for the next six hours. I could feel my inner taskmaster beginning to stir, that familiar urge to *do* something productive or meaningful with that time—to structure it, organize it, somehow make it count toward some imagined goal. But I caught myself in this habitual pattern and deliberately returned to my ongoing quest to simply enter the moment fully, without trying to shape it into something else.
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