Exhaust the little moment. Soon it dies.
And be it gash or gold it will not come
Again in this identical disguise. 
―Gwendolyn Brooks, Annie Allen

Ah Gwendolyn, your truth is magnificent! So much of life’s wisest counsel could be summed up in these four words: exhaust the little moment. And though there are those who are experts in exhausting the little moment, there are more–like me–who could benefit from some serious mentoring.

I admit that I naturally succumb to little moments that involve little people. Particularly the little people I love most: my granddaughter Gracyn and grandson Griffin. For example, I relished the moment captured in the photo above. Gracyn and Griffin wearing my ankle boots, clomping across the floor, giggling at each other as they worked hard to stay upright. When Gracyn commented, “I just love the sound these boots make when I walk on the wood floor,” the little moment deepened instantly into genuine deja vu. I remember loving this same sound as my sisters and I strolled up and down the sidewalk in my Aunt Susie’s hand-me-down beauty pageant pumps. And when Griff proclaimed, “These are my cowboy boots, Grandma!” the little moment burst into big-time glee as Gracyn and I could hardly contain ourselves. Little moments seem altogether right in the company of little people.

And when those little people grow into big people? These little moments are fleeting and run the risk of going unnoticed or being brushed over. This past week, my son moved out of our home into his first rental house. Once my little boy, he is now a man with a teaching job soon to begin and a home of his own. As we were moving boxes and furniture, he stopped, turned to look at the sofa and said, “Thanks for arranging the pillows, Mom.” Such an ordinary act, a little moment. Miniscule, actually, in the grand scheme of things. But for him it spoke love, and for me it spoke reassurance: you are still needed and appreciated. I am certain that in the days to come, when I look at the empty floor of our entry way, the floor that was once covered with athletic shoes and sweatshirts, I will remember this moment, for it will not come again in this identical disguise. 

And though these little moments will certainly pass, Henry David Thoreau writes that You must live in the present, launch yourself on every wave, find your eternity in each moment. Herein lies the paradox of little moments: they ground you solidly in the here-and-now AND promise the mystery of eternity.

There are little moments that have–in many ways–defined my life. And perhaps they should have defined my life in greater, more lasting ways. When I was in fifth grade and an avid kickball player, I was chosen captain during afternoon recess. Having won the coin toss, I scanned the playground before me, my expectant classmates crowding in. Certainly I would pick David Wisch, the hands-down best kickball player at Park Elementary School.

But something on this particular day–something heavenly I’d like to think–caused me to look beyond the pressing throng of fifth graders to Don S., who stood sullenly at the back. No one ever chose Don; he joined a team by default, last man standing. Always. On that day, in that little moment, I spoke the name that no one, Don included, expected. “I choose Don.” I’m not sure if my memory is accurate, but in my mind’s eye, I see Don with his head down, his shoulders slumped forward. I see one of my classmates nudge him and urge him forward to join my team. And I see him cast me a look that both moved and shamed me. Me? You really want me? 

I don’t remember if my team won or lost that day. But I remember the look, the little moment during which I honestly saw Don, perhaps for the first time, as a human being worthy of being chosen first. Today, I can say that I wish that this little moment had defined me in deeper, more lasting ways. I wish that I had always looked at those edge people, those who were perpetually invisible, those who expected nothing but wanted anything from those who looked over and around them. I wish that not a single Don S. would have escaped my notice.

Holocaust survivor and author, Viktor E. Frankl wrote:

For the meaning of life differs from man to man, from day to day and from hour to hour. What matters, therefore, is not the meaning of life in general but rather the specific meaning of a person’s life at a given moment.

Oh how I wish that the specific meaning of my life might have been shaped at that given moment. And how I understand that it is not the meaning of  my life in general but rather the sum of a lifetime of choices made and a lifetime of opportunities taken in little moments.

Author Maya Angelou understands a significant truth about little moments:

. . . I can be completely wedded to the moment. But when I leave that moment, I want to be completely wedded to the next moment.

To be completely wedded to the moment and yet ready to be completely wedded to the next moment. I have seen this truth lived out in people who genuinely live life abundantly. These are the individuals who live with the assurance that abundance lies paradoxically in the smallest, and often most ordinary, experiences. Wedding oneself to these small, ordinary experiences is, perhaps, the most sacred, live-affirming marriage.

The most wonderful thing about the Sanctuary of Little Moments is that its entrance is wide and admission is free. Anyone may enter, young and old. And those who have missed decades of little moments? It’s never too late to wed themselves to present and future moments. It’s never too late to join the fellowship of those who have been wedding themselves to little moments for years.

American author, Henry Miller, aptly describes the Sanctuary of Little Moments:

The moment one gives close attention to anything, even a blade of grass, it becomes a mysterious, awesome, indescribably magnificent world itself.

Little moments unlock a mysterious, awesome, indescribably magnificent world itself. They give credence to the expression that less may be more. If we will but wed ourselves to them, give the best of our hearts and souls to them, they will bless us with mystery and magnificence beyond our comprehension.

So when Gracyn stoops to pick up a snail the size of a pencil eraser–small enough that I really need reading glass to see it well–I will stop and take serious notice. For this little moment–and those that will follow–may never come again in this identical disguise.