Quality time should
not be measured in minutes, but in moments.
In my opinion, that thought is a bit above the usual sound
bite statement that masquerades as words of wisdom. It really does say
something, and it reminded me of one of my own moments many years ago.
When my daughter was 17 months old we were walking down the
street one day and she trotted ahead of me. She was wearing a hat with a bobble
that hung down on a short length of wool at the back, and as she walked it
swung from side to side. I watched her and was struck by the immeasurable preciousness
of what I was seeing: a beautiful, fresh little life walking confidently, if a
touch unsteadily, through the early spring of being. And what elevated the
experience from a passing observation to something rarefied and sublime was the
swinging bobble. Don’t ask me why the bobble made the difference; for some
reason it did. Something to do with the god of small things and being an HSP, I
expect. Whatever the reason, that moment was very special – a precious work of
art to which you give pride of place on the most prominent wall and admire over
and over again as long as you have eyes to see.
A few hours later she was badly scalded in a kitchen
accident, and subsequently spent a couple of weeks in a specialist burns
hospital. It was Christmas; the world was replete with baubles, but all I kept
seeing was the swinging bobble.
She pulled through OK, but I felt the sting of a harsh
lesson. Magic moments can, and usually do, bring warmth and priceless memories.
The picture sits proudly in its frame, there to be savoured over and over. But
they can also haunt and taunt most cruelly when fate decrees.
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