Behind the Puddle

I am beginning to recognize patterns behind the puddle. Not enough that anyone should consider me an expert. Let’s be very clear about that. But I know a few things now that I didn’t know when I first started sitting here.

I know the feeders can go from completely full to suspiciously empty in an impressively short amount of time. I know certain visitors are more likely to appear at certain times. I know rain can completely change the puddle. I know that when everything suddenly gets quiet, it is worth looking around. I know the geese have routines I don’t completely understand. I know Pinecone is persistent.

And I know that just because I haven’t seen someone for a few days doesn’t necessarily mean they are gone. None of those things came from one observation. I learned them because something happened.

Then it happened again. And eventually I recognized the pattern. Maybe that’s one of the ways wisdom grows. Not because we suddenly understand life. Because we have lived long enough to recognize a few things when they come around again.

I think when I was younger, I imagined wisdom as having answers. Wise people knew what to do. They understood people. They made good decisions. They probably didn’t lie awake at two in the morning replaying a conversation from three days earlier.

At 56, I’m beginning to suspect that wisdom may involve becoming increasingly aware of how much we don’t know. But we do know some things.

We know because we’ve seen them before. We’ve watched what happens when we ignore our own limits. We recognize the conversation that never goes anywhere. We know which people leave us feeling steadier and which ones leave us questioning ourselves. We recognize the difference between being tired and being depleted.

We know that some things we once believed were emergencies can actually wait until morning. We know that people can say they are fine when they aren’t. We know that children grow faster than seems reasonable.

We know that grief doesn’t follow a schedule. We know that relationships require more than good intentions. We know that something can hurt and still eventually become survivable. And sometimes we know when an old pattern is beginning again.

That may be one of wisdom’s greatest gifts. The ability to say: I recognize this. I’ve felt this before. I’ve responded this way before. I know where this road usually leads.

Maybe this time I can choose differently. Of course, recognizing a pattern doesn’t guarantee we will change it. Humans are remarkably talented at repeating things we fully understand are not working. I have personally conducted several long-term studies in this area. But awareness gives us a chance. And some patterns don’t need changing at all. Some deserve to be trusted.

Morning follows night. Hard seasons eventually become different seasons. People who consistently show up are usually the ones worth noticing. Small kindnesses matter. Rest helps. Laughter returns. Love leaves evidence. And sometimes the thing we were certain would break us becomes something we eventually learn how to carry.

Behind the puddle, September is following patterns much older than I am. The light shifts. The days shorten. The landscape prepares. Another season comes. There is comfort in recognizing that.

Maybe wisdom isn’t knowing exactly what will happen next. Maybe it is having lived enough yesterdays to recognize some of what today is trying to tell us. And then being willing to pay attention.