On Presence and Letting Go
“I think that’s a moth,” I mutter to myself, pausing mid-flight on the second-floor landing. I’ve been racing up and down the stairs to help my 20-year-old son, who’s home for the summer, get out the door when I notice a tiny flutter. With a slight bend of my knees, I lean over and gently pinch the spotted brown wings between my index finger and thumb.
“Mom, can you grab my speaker?” Joey calls from the ground floor.
“Sure!” I exclaim, letting go of the uninvited visitor—or maybe he let go of me—as I trot back upstairs, wondering what will happen to the little fella.
It’s Friday morning. I’d just spent two days laid out with a cold. Last weekend’s celebration for my husband who turned the big ‘six-oh,’ was oh-so-fun but did me in. After the weekend, my 18-year-old daughter asked if I was sick. She could hear a difference in my voice.
“No no,” I told her. “I think it was the wine I drank Saturday night.”
I hadn’t had wine since Christmas dinner. With sound sleep and more energy—along with deeper presence—I’ve been riding the ’NA’ wave and loving how good I feel.
That said, the Cabernet Sauvignon was delicious, and once I admitted to myself, I had caught a cold, I was hoping to sleep in this morning. But at 5:47 a.m., my eyes popped open.
While it’s rare for us to wake at the same time, I was surprised Duncan wasn’t snoozing next to me. Lately, I’ve become the early bird in the marriage—the one who flicks on the coffee machine, punches in the alarm code, and slips out before dawn to plunge into the bay.
I mean, really—who knew early-to-bed-and-to-rise would be what my future self would consider fun?
In college, my parents would call on weekends and be greeted by my raspy, hungover voice whispering a low, Hull-o.
I look back on that reckless abandon with compassion—but mostly with relief. It’s a miracle I’m still here.
At least you’re here is exactly what I say to my dear husband—not just for turning 60, but for passing the five-year mark since his cancer diagnosis.
When I hear an exaggerated grunt as he climbs the stairs or a deep sigh as he thumps into bed with a laugh, I am reminded of how his humor has carried us not just through cancer, but through 25 years of marriage.
On the rare occasions he mentions the numbness in his feet, or the lingering effects of losing part of his colon, I know he’s still grateful. Grateful to be here. As am I. Deeply.
After my son Joey left, I settled back into my low-to-the-ground chair in the living room. To my left, I look down at our twelve-year-old dog, Augie. She’s sprawled out, snoring heavily. I’m allergic to dogs, but as long as I don’t rub my face in her fur, I’m okay.
Soon it will be just me and Duncan—and Augie.
The thought makes me laugh out loud. Oh my God how is this possible?
I snap a picture of her sprawled out, belly exposed, legs twitching in her sleep, and text it to the family chat we named Simple Family, along with a quote I read the other day that shook me to the core:
“The times are urgent. We must slow down.”
Our female dog with a boy’s name seems to have that one figured out.
Just as I hit send, I hear the U-lock click open the blue front door. Duncan is back from training his pre-dawn clients. I didn’t shove off to cold-dip, and I’m not jonesing for a workout.
Today—even though I’m feeling better—will be the day I slow down.
Until I stand up, of course.
Duncan pokes his head into the living room. I look, light up, and rise from my all-time favorite writing chair to give him a morning hug.
After we empty the dishwasher, take out the compost, and he makes his requisite eggs with a scoop of Pico de Gallo (which, to me, just doesn’t belong in the early morning), we talk about what we want to do right after we drop our daughter Kate off at college.
In mid-sentence, I remember the moth—and run into the hallway to see if he’s still there—and he‘s languishing.
“Can you help me?” I call Duncan, thinking maybe he can change its course—or maybe, like so much right now, it’s just time to let go.
At that exact moment, our daughter Kate walks down the stairs, right past us, and takes her amoxicillin. We’re all down this week with something!
We mill about the kitchen discussing: Who’s taking the car. What’s for dinner? Why she need to get a Real ID. And why hasn’t she already?
And I think to myself: I’m going to miss these moments.
But then again, I know we’ll find new ones.
As I’ve come to learn, every ending is a new beginning.
We just have to slow down long enough to notice what’s here— before it’s gone.
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