the little white flowers

I was working out in the driveway this morning when I noticed a little flower pot I had never seen before. It was full of round, bright green leaves bursting from the sides. As I was struggling to catch my breath, I became aware of the sudden clarity I was feeling. It reminds me of when I’m puttering around with Noah outside, and I’m lost in thinking about the next interview or what’s for dinner. Then he brings me out of my torpor, excitedly running to me. His little hand is thrust upwards, and his eyes sparkle as he communicates his wonder at finding this treasure: a little white flower sticking out of his fist.

I struggle to notice the details sometimes. Maybe it’s just me, maybe it’s a consequence of living in a distracted, fast-paced modern world. In any case, I’ve fought against bird brain pretty much all my life. As careful as I try to be, I still miss the patch of white flowers my son noticed, forget to put salt in the bread, and run the coffee machine with no grounds. It’s frustrating and totally at odds with what I believe about the importance of details!

When I think about a well-designed space, or a work of art, or a poem I like, my first feeling is appreciation of the work as a whole. But when I think about why I like it, or what makes it beautiful, it’s all in the details: the kitchen utensils hanging against the wall thoughtfully, the choppy brush strokes giving life to a ballerina, transforming her delicate movements into fierce athleticism, the intentional pause in a poem, heightening tension in the reader. Its beauty is magnified by each of the tiny details that comprise it.

I’m going through a transitional period right now. It’s hard for me to write about because I’m still very much in it. The TLDR is that I was laid off in December after eight years in tech, and I’m finding it difficult to land another job in the market right now. At this point, it feels like my career has maybe stalled? Also at the same time as the layoff, we moved in with my parents to prepare for us to go to seminary in New York this fall. I feel like I’m jumping out of a plane–I think my parachute will open, but I don’t know where I’ll land. It’s exciting and terrifying all at once. It’s hard not to look at the big picture and get overwhelmed or start feeling despair that maybe things won’t work out.

But when I look closer, I see a different portrait emerge: the smell of my mom’s cookies filling the kitchen, the soft morning light caressing the trees in the undeveloped forest behind the house, the sleepy grin on my dog’s face as she’s being pet and loved on by my parents. When I zoom in, I find bits of joy hiding in unexpected places. We’re so loved, so cared for. It’s only by slowing down that I can see this. The big picture hasn’t changed, but the moments that make up this time imbue it with joy and meaning. My life is full of little white flowers. Each one of them is a brief, luminous display of creation at its finest–if only one has the time to slow down and see them.