People are funny; heck, I am funny. We exist in a constant state of “if only.” We wish for something with a desperate intensity—a promotion, a partner, or even just the simple ability to walk without a medical boot—and then, the moment we receive it, we either ignore the blessing or immediately pivot toward the next horizon.
Right now, my world is defined by the confines of my home and the weighted limitation of a boot. I crave the simple liberty of a walk. Yet, I know the human script: as soon as the doctor gives me clearance, the last thing I will probably do is actually go for a walk. At least, that is what past experience tells me. We are a species that takes the mundane miracle of mobility for granted the moment it becomes available.
That is why I say people are funny. We are fickle. Today’s hero is tomorrow’s goat. We are captivated by beauty until it fades, and we are enthralled by novelty until it becomes routine. We get bored quickly because we are always looking for the “more” instead of the “here.”
But this realization leads to a deeper question: What is permanent? What is lasting? What is true?
If you sit in the stillness long enough—perhaps forced into it by a physical limitation—you realize that while our whims are fleeting, there are constants that remain. There are anchors in the storm of our boredom.
Think of the things that don’t lose their luster:
Not just the calories, but the meal where the memories are actually better than the taste—the kitchen smells from seventy years ago.
The uncritical, exuberant welcome from a puppy or the hug of a child.
A simple game of catch with your father, where the silence between the throws says more than a thousand books.
A drive in the country where the light hits the trees just right, Suzy’s smile that acts as a north star, the crackle of a fire against a good book, or a restorative warm shower.
As I sit here, my list is growing. I started with a complaint about a boot, but I am ending with a realization of abundance.
The “walk on the beach” we dream of isn’t just about the sand between our toes; it’s about the realization that we are part of something vast and constant. You see, if you really consider life, it is wonderful. We often view the “bad things”—the injuries, the setbacks, the boots—as intruders. But perhaps they are actually messengers. They are there to strip away the noise of our fickleness and remind us just how magnificent the “normal” things truly are.
They are the contrast that makes the heart go potato. Without the boot, a walk is just a chore; with the memory of the boot, a walk is a prayer.
You are an inspiration.
Not really. Love. Brother.