In the over two years since my work-life changed, I am still surprised by the details I missed when I was sequestered in an office over eight hours of the day.
In one of those “life-gets-in-the-way,” moments, a person I was supposed to meet at 8:30 in a building in the heart of our town was delayed yesterday morning. While waiting, I sat in the tiny municipal department carved from a corner of an antique former home, observing as folks conducted business, greeting each other with jokes, laughter, handshakes—and welcomed me with the same.
It was the kind of day we’ve waited for over these cold weeks—blue sky and dry air, short sleeves and flip-flop weather without oppressive heat. After giving up on the appointment, I stood on the stoop outside, letting the warmth sink deep, when the 57-bell Carillon from the Episcopal Church across the street struck the half-hour with a chiming melody, lasting several minutes. As music resonated across the common and down the main street I stood, head tilted, mouth slightly open.
In the nineteen years we’ve lived in here, I’ve heard the carillon play, of course. In the summer, the church holds weekly concerts. Folks pack picnic suppers and spread their blankets on the town common to listen as visiting masters perform. One Thanksgiving weekend years ago, the tower was open for guests and we panted as we climbed the steps to the top to watch a woman play Christmas Carols. I don’t recall though, hearing, or knowing that at the half-hour, instead of a one-note chime typical of many clock towers, an entire tune rings out, bounding through the trees, gamboling down the street.
Yesterday, I learned that on any February, June or September morning, at say, 9:30 or 11:30; or maybe 3:30 in the afternoon, if I happen to be at the right place, bell-shaped sounds will turn ordinary moments into magic, infusing me with a composition of gratitude for all that life is now.
What unique moments do you encounter in your small world?
Happy Weekend and Happy Fathers' Day!