I used to love roller coasters. I loved the thrill, the adrenaline, the speed, all of it. I didn’t realize it, but once I had children something changed. My nervous system just didn’t seem to have room to hold both the preciousness of my children and my thrill-seeking behavior at the same time. The idea of being strapped into something that was going to drop me hundreds of feet at an unreasonable speed didn’t sound nearly as fun as it used to. So, I don’t ride roller coasters anymore.
My family, they LOVE to ride coasters. So, this past weekend we took our boys to Busch Gardens for our twins’ 16th birthday. I got to watch my husband show up so beautifully for our boys as he got on ride after ride with them while I waited. And there was a lot of waiting. If you’ve ever spent a day at a Florida theme park in August, you know this wasn’t exactly a peaceful retreat. It was ridiculously hot and humid. I was sweaty, exhausted, and honestly, at certain points it felt like we’d been there forever.
But because I wasn’t riding, I had hours throughout the day when I really didn’t have specific destination or purpose and I also wasn’t spending much time on my phone, so I sat and watched people. I started conversations with others who were waiting for their friends and family to get off the rides. We watched people coming off the rides smiling and laughing. There was something profoundly joyful about watching all those happy faces, even though I was perfectly content not to be one of the people getting off the roller coaster.
Now here’s the thing. None of this felt particularly meaningful while it was happening. I wasn’t sitting on a bench at Busch Gardens contemplating presence. I wasn’t having some profound spiritual experience, I was hot, I was tired, and I was waiting for my family. At one point I remember thinking “I am so proud of myself for being able to keep up with everyone in the heat.
Eventually, we made our way back to the Airbnb, and we all jumped into the pool. I found myself watching my husband and our boys goofing around together. I don’t even remember exactly what they were doing, but there was splashing and laughing and that kind of nonsense that happens when the four of them get going. I just stood there and watched them, and I had this moment where I realized how joyful it all was. And gratitude filled my heart and my eyes welled with tears. You see, there was a time when I couldn’t even imagine this level of peace and joy was possible.
That doesn’t mean everything is perfect now. It isn’t. We have all the ordinary things that come with being human and being a family. There are worries and disagreements. There are things we’re figuring out. There are things I’m still figuring out. But maybe that’s exactly why the moment struck me the way it did. The peace wasn’t there because everything else had finally been resolved. It was there alongside everything else.
I’ve spent a lot of my life thinking about what’s next. What I am creating? What needs my attention? What needs to change? Who am I becoming? I think a lot of us do this, especially when we’ve spent years in personal and spiritual development. There’s always another layer to explore, another pattern to understand, another part of ourselves we’re working on. Even growth can keep us looking toward some future version of our lives, and when we’re always looking toward what’s next, I wonder how often we don’t notice what’s already here.
Because what we’ve been waiting for doesn’t necessarily arrive with some big announcement. Sometimes it looks like sitting outside a roller coaster while the people you love are having the time of their lives. Sometimes it’s a conversation with a stranger who’s also waiting for someone. Sometimes it’s being ridiculously hot, sweaty, tired, and more than ready to go home. And sometimes it’s standing in ther pool watching your husband and your children laugh together and realizing that you’re looking at something you once weren’t sure you’d ever have.
I’ve been thinking about how easy it would’ve been for me to miss that moment. Not physically miss it, because I was right there, but I could’ve been thinking about what needed to happen next. I could’ve grabbed my phone. I could’ve been thinking about work, tomorrow, or any of the hundreds of things that can pull us away from what’s happening right in front of us. Instead, I watched.
And I’ve been wondering if there’s a difference between gratitude and witnessing. Gratitude is something I can intentionally practice. I can think about what I’m grateful for and I can write it down. I can remind myself to appreciate what I have, and there’s absolutely value in that. But witnessing feels a little different to me. There’s nothing I’m trying to do with the moment. I’m not trying to make myself feel grateful. I’m not looking for the lesson. I’m not asking what it means or what I’m supposed to take from it. I’m just there long enough to notice it.
Maybe that’s part of what Practical Spirituality means to me. It’s not always something we have to go elsewhere to practice. It’s not always meditation, energy work, ritual, or intentionally creating some kind of spiritual experience. Sometimes it’s simply being present enough to recognize your own life while you’re living it, because some of what we have right now may be the very thing an earlier version of us hoped for, prayed for, worked toward, or couldn’t even imagine was possible.
I don’t ride the roller coasters anymore, and there was probably a time when I would’ve thought the person on the ride was the one having the experience. This weekend reminded me just how much there is to notice when I’m present enough to see it.