The Art of Being Present.
If I had a dollar for every time I said "Oh just busy" when someone asked how I'm doing.
Last fall we took our daughter, Charlotte aka Lottie, to her first day of “school.” It was technically an orientation for her parent-day program, but for Lottie, it was the real deal: a new place, her first classroom, new friends, and the exciting uncertainty of a whole new experience.
Getting ready that morning, the drop off slipped through my mind as just another item on the seemingly never ending to-do list. Even as we were there, my inner dialogue was a chaotic jumble: What do other parents think of us? Is this the right program for her? How will she respond when she gets hurt? Etc. etc. etc.
My wife, Shelly, has an amazing gift—the ability to be fully present, particularly when it involves relationships. It’s not that she can’t have the swirl of anxious thoughts, but somehow, she consistently manages to return to the present moment, especially in moments with our daughter. It’s beautiful and so inspiring to me.
As we walked Lottie down the hallway, Shelly whispered with a big smile, “We’re walking our daughter to her class for the first time!” That comment caught me off guard. I like to think I’m pretty intentional about observing important moments like this, but I was in a different world. This doesn’t happen to me often, but in that moment I heard a gentle voice say "Be here now."
And then, a shift. A surrender. Suddenly, I was more aware of my body, my senses fully alive. The chaotic thoughts subsided as I focused my attention on Lottie: her little pigtails bouncing, a mixture of curiosity and caution on her face as she waddled between us. I was actually noticing the colors of the walls and floors and the sounds of kiddos voices. Time still moved forward, but my perception of it changed. The second hand kept ticking on my watch, yet everything around me seemed to slow down.
Is this what it means to be truly present? To be here now?
Of course, this state of mindful presence didn't last as long as I wanted. Soon, the anxiety and to-do list came back. But in that moment, the simple whisper from Shelly, followed by the gentle invitation to "Be here now," brought me back to the present, reminding me that presence isn’t something we achieve. It’s something we surrender to. It’s an invitation we accept, not a goal we fight for. Presence is a gift of letting go.
To be fully present is to give yourself over to the here and now. To surrender to the current moment, even as everything else tugs at your attention. The beauty of these moments is worth more than all the urgent tasks on your to-do list.
The other day, I was catching up with my spiritual director over coffee. We talked about many things throughout our hour or so together. He is a wise man, but of course it was one nonchalant sentence spoken as we were parting ways that has stuck with me for weeks.
"You're not in a hurry."
That sentence hit me right in the gut and I've been reflecting on it, and two distinct threads keep pulling at my attention, for weeks now.
One is a strong, almost frantic tug. It's the urgent voice of my to-do list, the relentless pressure to achieve, to get there. Where "there" is, I don’t even know half the time. But the felt sense of urgency is palpable. This thread, this pull, can guide my being more often than I want to admit. When I let it lead, it can drag me into a whirlwind of activity, believing this relentless pace is somehow essential to getting to the next thing. Which is also somehow more important than the current thing.
But there's another thread. It's fainter, a gentle whisper that gets lost in the noise of life. It’s the quiet invitation from a still, small voice that says, "This way." It's not a demanding pull like the frantic tug, it’s more of an invitation. Offering a softer, more deliberate pace. When I notice this, my shoulders relax, my chest opens, and my feet feel grounded. All of a sudden I’m in the present.
And it strikes me: this gentle thread, this subtle beckoning, might just be the voice of Wisdom. Perhaps Wisdom isn't a destination reached through frantic activity but a presence found in the stillness, the here and now. Maybe the "there" the urgent part of me searches for has been here all along.
The truth is, I still feel the tug of that first thread. That need to do more, be more, achieve more is still present. But I’m learning to listen to the other thread. To pause and turn toward the quiet whisper of Wisdom. This is where the magic happens: not in the rush to get there, but in finding the "there" in the present moment. It's in dropping my shoulders, softening my heart, and noticing the beauty around and within. This is where I find connection, peace, and meaning.
Maybe, you also feel these two opposing threads pulling at you? Maybe the urgency feels familiar. I invite you to take a moment and feel what its like to lean into that gentle, wiser call.
Ask yourself: What does the subtle, quiet pull of Wisdom feel like in your life? What invites you to rest into the present moment?
Maybe "there" is really here. Let’s listen for Wisdom together. In my faith tradition, Wisdom is God’s still small voice that is speaking often. It’s more a matter of— am I slowing down enough to hear it?
How might we approach our days – our work, our relationships, our inner struggles – with a spirit of curiosity and openness to what's unfolding? How might we practice the art of listening, not just to hear words, but to perceive the deeper currents of emotion and experience? What happens when we exchange the urgency of "doing" for the patience of "being"? What kind of stillness and rest might invite us to discover new wisdom, compassion, and strength?
As someone in a different season of life than you are (as in WAY past), I want to say that you will NEVER regret being intentional about these moments. I love hearing of young parents being present...nicely done,sir. You will have children who adore you for it!
Beautiful. This reminds me of when I walked my daughter to her first kindergarten class. At that moment, noticing how quickly five years had just slipped by, I realized how the next few years will slip by, too, and suddenly she'll be graduating. Thank you for writing this and reminding all of us to slow down and be present.