We say it so easily. Stop to smell the flowers.
But most days, we don’t. We move through time like it’s something we might run out of, hurrying, organizing, solving, carrying.
And then, a small hand interrupts everything.
My grandson Dean picked wildflowers for me today.
One by one, he placed them in my hand like they were something sacred.“These are for you, Grandma.”And then, as if he needed to understand the moment more fully, he asked me my name.
I said, “My name?”He said yes.
Cathy, I told him.
He smiled like it was the most beautiful name he had ever heard. Then he picked more flowers.
More offerings. More love. No rush. No agenda. Just presence. I wanted to keep it, not just the flowers, but the feeling. So I did what I know how to do.
I drew.
Without lifting the pencil, I followed the stems, the tilt of each bloom, the way they leaned into each other.
A single line, unbroken, like the moment itself.
Because some moments don’t need perfection. They need witness.
This is what it means to stop.
Not to escape life, but to enter it more fully.
To notice the offering. To receive it. To honor it.
To let a handful of wildflowers become a memory, a drawing, a marker in time.
One day, I may not remember the exact date. But I will remember this:
The way he said my name. The way he kept choosing me. The way love looked like small yellow and purple flowers placed gently into my hands.
Maybe that’s what “becoming” really is.
Not the big milestones. Not the finished versions of ourselves.
But these quiet moments, where we are fully seen, fully loved, and fully present to receive it.
Today, I stopped.
And I smelled the flowers.