Inhale

Beyond the window, there is breath.

All,

Several years ago, for my birthday, my mother gifted me a wrapped photo in a frame that took my breath away.

“It’s to remind you to always stop and smell the flowers,” she said, adding that I was so apt to do that as a child.

It was poignant (and likely a passive-aggressive nudge), which is why it has become a permanent fixture in my home office, where I find myself gazing at it frequently.

And when I do, in addition to my mom’s words, there are several thoughts that always arise:

Like how I have such distinct, fond memories in that field, which was on a farm owned by dear family friends.

And how I – eleven years younger than my only sibling – would entertain myself in there for hours, accompanied by a harmony of laughter, as the adults enjoyed cocktails on the back deck.

I remember how much I cherished that t-shirt, which was my father’s company softball “jersey,” emblazoned with the number 10.

And I can still feel the dichotomy of knowing my world then was so safe, so small – yet also, backed by promise and hope, had the potential to be so big.

Yet these days, when my eyes catch this photo, there is also wonder:

When is the last time I stopped to smell the flowers?

Or felt my bare feet tickled by the grass?

Heck, when was the last time I inhaled the presence of my own, solo company?

When even heading outside for a walk prompts me to grab my phone – just in case.

See, this photo invokes more than just a pang of nostalgia. It’s a reminder of life before devices and optimization at break-neck pace.

Yet when I pull my eyes up from the photo and beyond the screens sitting like soldiers at attention, there’s a window framing the hope that it’s all still there.

Just waiting for me to come out and play.

Here’s to you,