We can only be said to be alive in those moments when our hearts are conscious of our treasures.

–Thorton Wilder

I’ve been known to overthink, overplan, overworry–generally to live outside of myself during any given moment as both spectator and critic intent on making the next best move and saying the next best thing. Oh, to be one step ahead, hoping the future will unfold more generously, more gloriously, more certainly! For too much of my life, I’ve taken for granted single moments, regarding them as necessary foreplay for something bigger and better. I’d have done well to heed the words of Rose Kennedy, who cautioned that [l]ife isn’t a matter of milestones, but of moments. Moments are the hummingbirds of time, flashing quicksilver wings through the duties of the day. Too often, much too often, I’ve missed them.

Just the other day, I was telling my grandson, Griffin, about my family’s annual 4th of July picnics at Ft. Kearney Recreational Center. The day began with donuts, juice, and coffee at the picnic area and progressed to swimming and sunbathing on the beach. But the highlight of the day–the pièce de résistance–was the annual Don Welch spastic run from the bath house down the beach into the water. My dad, whose legs only saw sunlight once a year, donned his swimming trunks and waited at the top of the beach as the family–and soon other swimmers–turned their eyes to the spectacle that was about to unfold. We held our breath until he began to run down the beach, his arms and legs flailing in classic Jerry Lewis style, his face contorted and his eyes crossed. For 30 glorious seconds, we laughed until we could no longer stand and fell bent over into the water. Each year, the spastic run grew in popularity, and the Don Welch fan club burgeoned.

I like to think that I was fully present in each of those moments when my dad put aside his respectable teacher persona to become a fool for a few precious and utterly entertaining moments. I like to think that I wasn’t dreaming about the brownies I knew my mom had packed or the teenage boys playing frisbee near the water. I do know that these moments have only become clearer and dearer over the decades. And for this, I’m more grateful than I can say.

So, when Griffin donned an assortment of dollar-store 4th of July accessories and leapt from the pool deck, flashing a goofy smile and double peace signs, I was fully present. Oh, how my dad’s legacy lives on in the heart of his great grandson and his spastic leap! The fact that his photographer mother captured this moment for posterity? Even better. For during the dark days of winter, I can pull this photo out and relive this moment just when I need it. Playwright Thorton Wilder claims, we are most alive in those moments when our hearts are conscious of our treasures. This moment, like those lived on the beach at Ft. Kearney Recreational Area, is a treasure.

The marvelous paradox of a single moment lies in the fact that it contains all moments, according to writer and theologian C. S. Lewis. Or as American writer Henry David Thoreau maintains, you can find your eternity in a moment. A moment may be small, but it be mighty! The other day while Griffin and I were in the pool, he urged me to dive in. Generally, I just float around while he swims beneath me. So, I rolled off my floatie and swam the length of the pool underwater. This isn’t a great feat in a 15 ft. pool, but it’s enough to delight a 9-year-old. In those brief moments underwater, I was transported to all those afternoons I spent at the Harmon Park Pool in Kearney, Nebraska. I can still recall the wonder of lying on the bottom of the pool, submerged and suspended in a sea of blue chlorinated water. It was magical. It still is. There’s something about that kind of weightlessness, that feeling of otherworldliness and timelessness that comes from being under water. A single moment in my little backyard pool contains just that kind of mystery and eternity.

Martin Luther King, Jr. writes:

Occasionally in life there are those moments of unutterable fulfillment which cannot be completely explained by those symbols called words. Their meanings can only be articulated by the inaudible language of the heart.

I suspect in everyone’s life, there are those moments which defy description or explanation. As an amateur birdwatcher, I often struggle to find the words to describe to others what I’ve seen and experienced. I’ve yet to find words to adequately describe the color of an indigo bunting. But when I see one in the honeysuckle bushes that ring the timber, I’m transfixed in a moment of unutterable fulfillment. Momentarily, I’m struck dumb. And this is exactly how it should be.

Each time I read the Sermon on the Mount, I’m moved by Jesus’s admonition to stop worrying about tomorrow. His words are a clear and present reminder to seek first the kingdom of God, to submit to the present moment, and above all, to trust:

So do not worry, saying, ‘What shall we eat?’ or ‘What shall we drink?’ or ‘What shall we wear?’ For the pagans run after all these things, and your heavenly Father knows that you need them. But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well. Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own. [Matthew 6: 31-34]

I continually remind myself that the moments of my day are gifts. And I hold fast to the assurance that tomorrow will worry about itself. And so, I’d like to tell you that I no longer overthink or overplan, that I’m fully present in every moment. But I can’t. Still, I’m making progress–one marvelous moment at a time.

And when it happens that you are broken, or betrayed, or left, or hurt, or death brushes near, let yourself sit by an apple tree and listen to the apples falling all around you in heaps, wasting their sweetness. Tell yourself that you tasted as many as you could.
― Louise Erdrich, The Painted Drum

Dear Lousie Erdrich,
Motherless now,
my grief compels me to harvest the moments of my life
in bushel baskets, and to tell myself
that I’ve tasted as many as I could:

that in those last days, 
when she was already weightless—
her bones gone quicksilver—
I hung on, grounding her with my great love;

that the sweetness of her life
was not wasted on me;

that today as I walk the path around the pond,
I’m greeted by water lilies, which are magnificent
structural things—

not at all shapeless smears of pastel light
floating on a Monet canvas—

but a hundred or more white missiles on green launch pads, 
sprung and ready to release their sweet weight
into first light.

So, here is my reckoning:

that though the years unmake me,
casting long shadows of their dominion,
I can take stock of my windfall:

     of this legion of lilies rising in the morning mist,
     of this redwing blackbird whose cries split the seam of dawn,
     of this mother’s voice, like the still small hum of locust, ever in my ear.

And today I can say, without a doubt,
that my baskets are full, and I’ve not gone without.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              

I can never pass a cat in the street without greeting it and exchanging a few words, and the cat invariably replies.

–Patricia Moyes, How to Talk to Your Cat

I’ve been known to greet a cat in the street or a ground squirrel along the path or a family of painted turtles stacked on a fallen branch in the shallows or–well, you get the idea. I’ve been known to greet just about any living creature that crosses my path. At my age, I have no shame about speaking aloud or stopping traffic. To greet is the polite thing to do, after all.

Just the other day, I was driving on the highway in southeast Iowa when I met three Amish buggies. Each man, woman, and child waved vigorously as I passed, and this made me happier than I can say. The recipient of so many hearty waves, I felt like a million bucks, like someone worth a flurry of unsolicited morning waves. Shawnee warrior and chief, Tecumseh, advised that we should [a]lways give a word or sign of salute when meeting or passing a friend, or even a stranger, if in a lonely place. Though most of us wouldn’t admit it, we often find ourselves in lonely places. So, a friendly word or wave is just the thing to illuminate our darker spaces.

Called the one of the best new traditions in college football, “The Wave” occurs between the 1st and 2nd quarter of Iowa Hawkeye home football games when nearly 70,000 at Kinnick Stadium stand and wave to pediatric patients in the University of Iowa Stead Family Children’s Hospital, which looks over the stadium. In his September 2017 report, “Meet the woman who helped make ‘The Wave’ happen,” Forrest Saunders (KCRG-TV9) identified Krista Young, a mother of three residing in Anita, Iowa, as the impetus for beginning “The Wave.” She posted the following on a Hawkeye fan page in May of that year:

I think with the new U of I hospital addition open. Kinnick should hold a “wave to the kids” minute during every game.

And the rest is history. Tune into any home Hawkeye game, and you’ll see a whole lot of waving: from Kinnick Stadium to the families and kids in the Children’s Hospital and back again. It goes without saying that there’s something particularly powerful in such a purposeful pause during an athletic event that draws thousands in person and millions on television. You can find sanctuary in the “Wave”, for in this moment, athletes, spectators, families and sick children come together in hope.

And what about those who are fools for enthusiastic greetings, even misguided ones? That is, if I had a dollar for each time I waved furiously at an oncoming car or passersby–only to realize that this wasn’t at all who I thought it was–I’d be a wealthy woman today. But maybe this doesn’t matter at all. Maybe all that truly matters is the spirit of the greeting, which generally blesses the unintended but nonetheless deserving. Actor and comdian Jimmy Fallon knows a thing or two about such greetings. Thank you … motion sensor hand towel machine, he jokes. You never work, so I just end up looking like I’m waving hello to a wall robot. I’m here to tell you, Jimmy, that there are legions of us who’ve found ourselves flapping our hands in front of broken motion sensor towel machines. We may be forced to air-dry, but we rarely fail to amuse the public restroom crowd!

A good greeting can be as formal or informal as you like. The moment I hear my grandson Griff open the front door, I’m yelling, “Hey, bud!” I’ve been greeting him this way for as long as I can remember. And his greeting in response? “Hey.” We get each other. We need few words to acknowledge that we’re happy to see each other. In E. B. White’s classic children’s book, Charlotte’s Web, Wilbur, the pig, learns there are, indeed, all types of greetings:

And, just as Wilbur was settling down for his morning nap, he heard again the thin voice that had addressed him the night before. “Salutations!” said the voice.

Wilbur jumped to his feet. “Salu-what?” he cried.

 “Salutations!” repeated the voice.

“What are they, and where are you?” screamed Wilbur. “Please, please, tell me where you are. And what are salutations?”

“Salutations are greetings,” said the voice. “When I say ‘salutations,’ it’s just my fancy way of saying hello or good morning.”

You may prefer a nonchalant Hey or perhaps a hearty Salutations. Regardless of your choice of greeting, however, I’m guessing that, like me, you simply like to be greeted. A greeting of any sort is an ordinary yet powerful means through which you know you’ve been seen and welcomed. In a world in which we may find ourselves feeling more and more like aliens, a heartfelt greeting seems essential.

Sometimes in the moments just after I’ve gotten into bed, I close my eyes and try to hear my father’s standard telephone greeting. Most nights, I can still hear the way it moved through the telephone wires, full-bodied and rich like maple syrup. And I try to remember the sound of my mom’s greeting as I burst through the front door, lugging my suitcase and computer bag. “Boy, you made great time!” she’d say. As if I would take my time as I made my way to her. These greetings are genuine sanctuaries into which I can take refuge, glorious moments during which I remember the magic of my parents’ voices.

I suspect that greetings–informal or formal–may soon be on the endangered social mores list (if there isn’t such a list, there should be). Too many people miss the opportunity to greet another because their heads are bent to their cell phones. They don’t recognize that another has entered their space. In the best cases, they may throw a head-nod in another’s direction; in the worst cases, they never look up from their devices, wholly oblivioius to the fact that they are no longer alone.

Greetings may go the way of the Dodo. I can imagine my grandkids trying to explain to their children that, once upon a time, people actually greeted each other with words, waves, and handshakes. They’d have to unearth old YouTube or TikTok videos as proof of a custom that simply died. I can imagine this, but I don’t want to. I’m holding out for a greeting revival, the sort which sweeps the world with the same kind of fervor that erupts between the 1st and 2nd quarters of Iowa Hawkeye football games.