I'm sitting at a picnic table next to the ocean. It should be serene. And it is—just not like I'd first thought.
In front of me, a rock wall pretends to contain the pebble-beached apron that's sprawling itself into low tide. One man is strolling with two dogs, but they're sprinting. The oak tree branches along the shore sway lightly while the sailboat masts in the cove do the same—bobbing along from their moorings to the gentle rhythm of golden hour.
I'm tucked into the hillside a bit, but the man sits at the furthest point of this waterfront park, where it juts out into the harbor. I watch as he pulls out his phone, so I'm skeptical at first when his dogs start frolicking. They start weaving wider circles and tumbling to change direction.
They're happy.
Playing, romping, and chomping.
Then the man put his phone down. His gaze starts drifting out across the water while adjusting his posture. That's when I realize this must be their nightly routine. He relaxed, leaning back into the picnic table.
His serenity and the dogs' ease seemed to radiate appreciation. Who knows if that's actually what each were thinking or feeling. But I am now, since they reminded me why I chose this spot. Because I hadn't felt it yet when I first sat down. It took zooming out to look at the whole picture.
What do you pay attention to in your environment? Are you only in your head, or are you in the scene, too?
onward.
-dmac