Behind the Puddle

I am ready for fall. I am probably too ready. I love the idea of cooler mornings, sweatshirt weather, and changing leaves. I love the kind of evenings when sitting outside feels comfortable instead of requiring a strategic relationship with shade, fans, and whatever direction the breeze happens to be coming from.

September arrives, and I immediately start looking ahead. I want to know when the leaves will change, when it will cool down, and when it will really feel like fall. Apparently, I have decided that September’s primary responsibility is preparing October for me.

Meanwhile, today is standing right here. Today is still mostly summer. The trees are green, and the afternoons can still be warm. Birds continue visiting the feeders, and wildlife is still moving around the puddle. The evenings remain long enough to sit outside and watch what happens.

Nothing about today is incomplete simply because something else is coming. I have been thinking about how often we do this with our lives. We live toward Friday, vacation, retirement, the next appointment, the answer we’re waiting for, or the time when the kids are older. We wait for things to calm down, for more money, for our bodies to feel better, for a problem to be resolved, or for life to become whatever version we imagine will be easier to fully enjoy.

There is always something ahead. That’s part of being human because we anticipate, plan, and hope. But sometimes, I wonder how many todays I have treated primarily as hallways leading somewhere else. I have moved through days, weeks, and seasons while waiting for the part I thought I wanted more.

Behind the puddle, September isn’t waiting for autumn. September is happening. Today, the birds will eat, the water will move, and something may visit, or nothing may visit. The sun will travel across the yard, evening will arrive, and this particular day will never happen again.

That doesn’t mean I need to make it extraordinary. I don’t have to squeeze meaning out of every minute. I don’t have to be perfectly mindful, grateful, or present from morning until night. That sounds exhausting. Maybe presence is much simpler.

Every now and then, I can stop looking toward what comes next long enough to recognize that I’m already here. This is the day I have, not the one I’m waiting for, not yesterday, and not the cooler autumn day I am apparently trying to summon through sheer enthusiasm. This is the day.

There will always be something coming, whether it is another season, milestone, question, or change. When it arrives, there will probably be something beyond it that I am already thinking about. Maybe that’s why today deserves some attention of its own.

Today deserves attention not because it is remarkable, but because it is here. Behind the puddle, summer hasn’t completely left, and autumn hasn’t completely arrived. For once, maybe I don’t need either one to hurry. I can sit somewhere between them. I can live this day before I ask it to become tomorrow.