The Twelve Days of Holiday Gratitude…

4:36 PM

Day One…Being Present in the Moment

Many of us spend inordinate amounts of time so worried about what’s next, what might or might not happen and what may befallbailey us we forget to pay attention to now. Now often whizzes by as we plot, plan and determine that happiness lies just around the next corner, accomplishment or windfall.

Those who live this way must take care to pay attention to the moment, to drink it in because now is extraordinary, a gift and a marvel. Such is a night with Baby Chicken. My youngest child marches to a drummer whose beats are alien to others. She believes she is born too late, that her old soul would better serve in another time especially in music and the written word. A deeper time, more penetrable into the soul would suit her sensibilities. She revels in the words of the masters: Joplin, Dylan, Hendrix, Jack Johnson and her personal sorceress Stevie Nicks.

Sliding the car into the garage across from the stadium, I vow to savor the moment; watch her view a hero, a person who touches her magic heart. I vow not to worry about the time, what has to be done tomorrow or what was neglected today.

Of course I think she is beautiful, as all mothers do. I know the world does too as the crowd parts to let her pass. Her young, unlined face smiles graciously as she carries herself into the room, takes in the stage and laughs aloud. I remind myself—there is only this moment.

Our seats feature a view of both the front and a portion of backstage. The five members of Fleetwood Mac stand waiting in the dark to climb the stairs. Baby Chicken is a little in front of me and I can see her breath is held. She wipes a tear as they begin to sing and I am reminded these are the sweetest rewards of motherhood. This is worth sleepless nights and timeouts and science fair homework and math problems never mastered.

Her songstress icon steps to a scarved and bejeweled microphone, belting out songs that touch my young one somewhere deep inside. I take a photo of her watching and marvel at how breathtakingly lovely she is and treasure the moment.

She tells me her generation does not understand the depth of music and lyrics; that bands today don’t entertain; that musicians believe the performance is all about them, and that a band such as this remembers its’ fans. I felt the same when I saw them twenty-five-years ago and wanted to don bohemian skirts with boots and spin round with my shawl flying wild, wishing to be my own version of Rhiannon. Don’t say you didn’t—liar.

And so on this first day of holiday gratitude, I am indeed thankful for the 196 moments that make up this evening. Every song, every movement, every tear and every smile are etched like crystal treasure in my brain. As every moment should be.


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