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My children are currently playing quietly throughout the house, building LEGOs in one room, imagining a magical ball with Barbie in another, some occasional sounds of explosions and whispered exclamations from Asher in the bedroom.

Despite our slow start, the day ahead of us remains –  the remnants of oatmeal crusting over the dishes on my kitchen table, the towels in a heap at the foot of our washing machine, the stack of packages waiting for their trip to the post office, the portrait session this afternoon, the countless hours of editing on my work queue. Oh, and schoolwork in there. Somewhere.

But I have been given the gift of a postponed session this AM and these quiet morning moments are too rare and precious for me to force into submission so quickly.


Driving this weekend, I have been guilty of listening to Christmas music, fully aware that Thanksgiving has still yet to be given it’s day. While belting out I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas for the fifth or sixth time, I was struck that, early though I may be, we are actually here again. Already. The holidays. The time of year when furnaces run non-stop and fireplaces are lit nightly. The time of year when my children are practicing for musical productions, and our UPS guy is here more regularly with packages that will stack up like a cardboard holiday tree in my bedroom. My kids will ask what’s in them and I’ll reply, clothes, boring books, work stuff.


This weekend, Lila had her seventh birthday party. A month from now, Alex will be celebrating his ninth.

My life. Is. Flying.

A year from now, I’ll read this post and remember this moment, sitting on my disheveled bed, Evie playing with an empty wallet beside me and not wearing any pants, the busyness of this holiday week awaiting my feet to hit the ground and start running. Grocery shopping, post office, portrait sessions, school.

A breath. A blink. And it’s past.

The hours of the day are short and filled. Not just mine, but yours, and the person beside you at the grocery checkout, the lady behind the counter at the bank, my children, now whining that I’ve mentioned it’s time to start picking up and get ready for the day. Now, that it’s nearly 11 and we’re still in pajamas.

I cannot stop time. I cannot make everyday the most meaningful day of my life and to try to only makes every moment that much more stressful.

But I can incorporate more meaning into each hour, not by rushing to fill it, but rather by simply sitting still and letting it pass. Perhaps even with a nod and a little grace for it’s rhythmic onward march (and for my scattered, oatmeal on the table, laundry on the floor, can’t-do-it-all-but-will-try-anyway, self, too.)

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