A Day of Intention

There are two huge windows in my office, which means I can watch the neighborhood go by… and since I haven’t put up curtains yet, the neighborhood can watch me, too. I’ll get around to curtains eventually, I’m sure.

Each morning I seem to get bored at roughly the same time, and I sit back for a moment and turn to look out the window. And each morning, regular enough to set my clock by, the groundskeeper for the neighborhood putters by in his golf cart loaded with shovels and clippers and all sorts of landscape-y things. He’s an old man hunched over the steering wheel, leaning precariously out the side as he rolls slowly down the road, peering carefully into the median to check out each of his plants—then he reaches the end of the road and pulls a u-turn and putts down other side of the median, perilously scrutinizing the plants on the far side. Each time, he reaches the end of his lap and hits the gas, maxing out the speed of his loaded-to-the-gills golf cart.

Of all the times that I’ve seen him make his examination, I’ve never once seen him get out of the cart and make any adjustment. I’ve also never seen so much as a single weed trying to peep its head out of the carefully landscaped garden. Perhaps they wither under his gaze each morning.

Blue coveralls are his summer uniform of choice, but as the mornings get colder, he’s taken to wearing a plaid jacket, gloves, and a furry black hat on his rounds—the kind of hat with the fleecy earflaps, which he leaves tied-off on top of the hat.

I don’t know his name. I don’t know if he’s as old as he looks, or if he’s been weathered by wind and sun and crouching over steering wheels. I don’t know if he’s nice, or gruff, or married, or single, a grandfather, or a widower. I know absolutely nothing about this man—and I doubt that he has ever once lifted his head from his plant-based scrutiny to see me in my window—but all the same he has become part of my routine. How often does this happen each day, to each of us? How often do we unwittingly become part of someone’s routine—stepping into their lives without intention and without thought, touching them simply by existing? How much more of an impact could we have on the world around us if we DID face each day with intention?

I find myself rushing through my errands at the grocery store, the dry cleaners, the big box stores, always rushing rushing rushing, edging away from the cashier who talks too much and rolling my eyes in exasperation when I turn away. But why am I in such a hurry? Is an extra five minutes going to make a huge difference in my day? I highly doubt it. And maybe what that cashier REALLY needed today was someone who was willing to slow down and listen up. Maybe she’ll go home to her crazy house and umpteen kids and busy husband and dirty kitchen and be just a smidge happier because she got an extra smile, laugh, and 45 seconds of listening from a random stranger who simply made her feel like she was heard.

And maybe not. Maybe that cashier has a perfectly happy life, no worries, and really doesn’t care if each person through her line doesn’t make eye contact and snatches the receipt away from her with impatience. But does that really change anything? Slowing down and listening up has done as much good for me as I imagine it may be for others.

And soon, before I know it, maybe I’ll have inadvertently worked myself into the landscape of someone else’s life with no effort at all.