Present Over Perfect

novel set in Italy, listening to Mac talk himself to sleep,
watching the sun slide and fade.
This morning, I drank coffee and chatted with Aaron as
he washed Mac’s hair in the tub—there is nothing in all the
world more attractive than a man who is tender with his
small son, who washes his hair and gently wipes the water
out of his blue eyes.
Once the kids were dressed and breakfasts were eaten,
we settled on the patio, as is our new custom, and the
neighbor kids came over to shoot baskets and ride bikes
before the bus came. They yelped and played, asked us to
watch them shoot over and over.
As I watched them play, I was struck by how much has
changed in the last three years. I thought that the speed—
that frantic, anxious, powerful freight train—was outside of
me, and that I needed to distance myself from it. That was
partly true. But truer is that it’s also inside me—the roar of
pressure and pushing and relentless motion. I’ve always
been outrunning something, from my earliest memories,
escaping into something, a story or a city or a meal or an
experience. Frantic, frenetic, a hummingbird, a bouncing
ball.
The journey of these years have been toward quiet—
toward creating quiet around me, but more than that, toward
creating quiet within me, which is much more difficult, and
much more profound.
I’m amazed at how many things are ultimately
connected: I like living in our home more when it’s less full