The Gift of Noticing

I finished making the stuffing—my mom’s simple, comforting recipe I make every year—and realized I had enough time to take a walk before the sun slipped away for the day. Excitedly, I donned my fitted weight vest, my new pink hat, and scooted up Lake Street to my favorite lookout where the bay meets the Pacific Ocean.

By late November the sun sets early—today at 4:52 p.m. With Thanksgiving the next day, more people than usual were milling around the path toward the Legion of Honor: families taking selfies, golfers finishing their rounds, couples marveling at the view.

It was the first time I’d put my weight vest back on since throwing out my back earlier in the month. As I watched everyone out enjoying themselves, my mind was catching up to something my body already knew: it was too soon to use my vest. Dumb dumb dumb floated through my brain before softening into: It’s okay, Katherine. Just take it slowly.

I wanted to make it to the sundial in time, but I listened to myself, slowed down, and took the stairs two feet at a time. I had almost reached my destination when I lifted my gaze east and saw a Princess cruise ship sliding beneath the Golden Gate Bridge, sounding its horn.

My first thought: How sweet—they timed it for sunset.
(That's when I snapped the photo above:))
My second, decidedly Grinch-like thought: Oh God, they’re going to ruin it.

To the west, the winter haze promised an especially magical post-sunset glow. I checked my phone: six minutes. But with the marine layer, the sun would disappear in less than three.

And that’s when I heard it—a pulsing beat.

Not gentle, Whoville-in-the-distance holiday music. No. This was loud, jarring, unmistakably Footloose. I almost laughed. Then I almost screamed. Really? Footloose? Right now?

I did not want to “kick off my Sunday shoes” with Kenny Loggins. I winced, turned around, and trudged up the stairs faster than I should have, hoping to escape this massive sonic intrusion on the bay.

At the top of the staircase, I caught the sun kissing the horizon. Yay! But then, like a slightly indignant child, I stuck both pointer fingers in my ears, one heartbeat away from a full lalalalalala when something in me shifted.

My chest widened. My breath slowed into long, steady inhalations—the kind my old yoga teacher used to teach. “Yoga is a moving meditation,” he’d say. I showed up religiously to his class for over a decade, until we moved neighborhoods.

For years I drifted away completely from meditation (moving or otherwise) until recently. Through the somatic practitioners at my retreats, the meditations during my Haven writing circles, and inspiration from clients like Arleen, a breathwork guide, I’ve been finding my way back.

Breathing deeply, and out of what felt like nowhere, my lips formed the words as my voice whispered…Thank you. I’m so grateful.

Fully cocooned, I heard the sound echo inside me. I wasn’t talking to the sunset, or the ocean, or God. I wasn’t even sure who the “I” referred to—until I remembered a mic-dropping line from The Untethered Soul: "You are not the voice of the mind—you are the one who hears it."

And here I was, in real time, communicating with…well, me—not the critical voice of the mind, but the quiet witness, the soul inside the body. I half expected her to answer back, You’re welcome.

And just like that, the holy moment I’d been chasing had nothing to do with the sun and everything to do with what I felt deep inside: connection.

On the walk home, I felt ecstatic—not the footloose-and-fancy-free kind (pardon the pun) but a peaceful, electric kind that came from the thrill of that momentary yet powerful feeling of oneness.

I kept thinking about what I might have missed if the cruise ship hadn’t sent me swirling and drowning out everything around me. And how grateful I was to notice who (and what) I really am. What we all are.

Mary Oliver wrote, “Attention is the beginning of devotion.”

It’s in those small openings that wisdom whispers its truth. And if we’re paying attention, we hear it—and may even feel called to share it.

Creativity lives in what we pay attention to—and what we notice is where our stories begin.