Behind the Puddle

I think one of the strangest things about change is how obvious it becomes after it has already happened. Suddenly, the babies are grown, the evenings are shorter, the leaves are changing, someone looks older, or something that used to feel normal doesn’t anymore. Except almost none of it was actually sudden. We just noticed late.

Behind the puddle, September is teaching me to look a little earlier. I am not looking for anything dramatic, only the small things. The light has shifted, the sounds are different, some visitors aren’t here as often, and the mornings don’t feel exactly the way they did a month ago. There may be one leaf changing while the rest of the tree still insists it is summer.

These are tiny signs. Nothing about them demands attention. But once I notice them, I can’t quite stop seeing them. Something is becoming.

I think awareness gives us that opportunity in our own lives too. It does not necessarily give us the ability to change what is happening. Sometimes, it simply allows us to recognize it.

A child begins needing us differently, or a parent asks for help with something they once handled without thinking. A friendship becomes quieter, a relationship becomes closer, or our body starts asking us to pay attention. A place that once felt right begins feeling different, something we used to enjoy becomes something we do mostly from habit, or something we never expected to care about becomes increasingly important.

We are changing too. Our tolerance changes, and our priorities shift. Things that once seemed urgent become less important, while things we once postponed start feeling worth making time for. Because none of this usually happens overnight, it is easy to miss.

Then, one day, we look around and wonder, “When did this happen?” Maybe awareness is what allows us to be present for some of the becoming instead of discovering all of it afterward. There is tenderness in that.

When I notice that something is changing, I have choices I wouldn’t have if I weren’t paying attention. I might take another picture, ask another question, make the phone call, sit a little longer, or stop postponing the conversation. I might let someone do something without my help because I realize they are ready, offer help because I realize they aren’t, or simply appreciate what is still here.

Awareness doesn’t prevent change. It shouldn’t. But perhaps it keeps us from sleepwalking through every transition.

I don’t want to spend September staring at the trees and waiting for them to become October. I also don’t want to look up one morning and realize I missed the entire changing. I want to notice some of it.

I want to notice the in-between, the almost, the not-quite-yet, and the moment when something familiar begins becoming something new. Maybe that’s true of my own life too. I don’t need to know exactly who I am becoming. But I would like to be awake enough to meet her along the way.