Missing the Special Moments Before They're Gone

The older I get, the more joy I derive from the little things, the temporary and the fleeting magic that I experience all around me if I’m paying attention. Most recently this joy has manifested in the form of a little bird who has returned to perch a few feet from the window where I sip my early morning chai and spend time writing. This is the third year he stopped by on his long migration and I’m absolutely enchanted by him.

He’s a charming fellow, flittering into the window, seemingly to get my attention and say good morning as the sun rises. I know he can see me as well as I can him and I wonder what he is thinking about me. I honestly don’t know if birds have the mental or emotional capacity to be attracted to humans, but it now feels as though I am the object of his attention, as he has taken to following me around the yard wherever I go.

Watering the plants in the front of the house the other day, I heard a rustling and spotted him perched a few yards away. Then, on the path that winds up the side of the house, he joined me and chattered a bit to get my attention. While enjoying lunch on the back deck, his call prompted me to turn around to spot him picturesquely posing above the mosaic sun. It just seems he likes my company and the feeling is mutual. His presence makes me inexplicably happy.

The other thing that seems to have come with the passage of time, is the feeling of missing something before it’s gone. I realized the other morning, my little bird friend would soon need to be off to warmer climate and even though he was still here, I felt the sharp pang of absence I knew I would inevitably feel when he goes.

It’s this way with many things now. I am aware that time will take from me many things I’m fond of and enjoy. Eventually, I will need to give up my job as a chef that I love and look forward to several days a week for the social interaction with energetic young coworkers and interesting guests. The work is hard and very physical, requiring me to arrive before dawn and to be on my feet for many hours. As I approach seventy, I don’t expect my body will rise to the challenge for much longer. I also know the day will come when I must trade the steep trails to the top of Sonoma Mountain for level ground where I will miss the solitude and peace of the majestic redwoods. It’s already evident that I will continue to say goodbye to friends and loved ones who are moving away, moving on or slipping away at the end of their lives.

Eventually, everything I value and treasure will one day be lost, everything I possess will be gone and so will I.

It’s a stark reality that I try not to dwell upon, but also feel compelled to acknowledge, if for no other purpose than to remind myself to appreciate it all while I can. But just as importantly to adjust my thinking to accept that change and loss is part of this era. I must allow myself to feel its sting, but to also feel grateful for what once was, alongside those emotions, allowing the anticipated sadness to deepen the contentment while it lasts.

They say people in their final stage of life are happier than in any other era, and I think this may be why. If it is the case, it certainly seems worth the effort to cultivate it.

But this morning, as I return to my place by the window to savor another delicious chai, I look out to find my darling friend sitting on his usual branch, looking back at me and I breathe a sigh of relief. He’s still here, for a while longer at least.