Sometimes I forget the calm of the seashore. I live in a house that is a short walk from the Salish sea, a part of the Pacific Ocean that includes the Strait of Georgia between the mainland and Vancouver Island. I walk to the beach nearly every day. But sometimes I forget just how peaceful and calming it can be to sit on a log and listen to the quiet lapping of the water and the gentle calls of the birds and look at the fog drifting around the islands. But I also live in a place with freeways full of rushing cars and instant reporting of violence around the world. I live in a time of division and threats and political revenge. Sometimes I forget and I need to simply sit and listen to my own breath as it synchronizes to the gentle waves and be reminded of the calm of the seashore.

Sometimes I forget the glory of the mountains. On a clear day I can see the North Cascades from my bedroom window. I can ride my bike to the top of a hill with a glorious view of Kona Kulshan, also known as Mount Baker. The glacier covered volcano rises more than 10,000 feet above my home. The evening alpenglow illuminates the mountain with orange and pink and purple and gold. Just looking at the mountain can take your breath away. Driving up its slopes, hiking in the old growth forest among the giant trees, dipping a toe into ice cold waters and sliding skis along the snow are all readily available to me. But sometimes I forget and I need to open my eyes to the glory that surrounds me every day.

Sometimes I forget the mystery of the fog. It moves in and out and all about silently and changes the appearance of everything. Distances seem greater in the fog and my glasses become covered with mist. When I am in a rush the fog can be a frustration because it invites slowing down. Reduced visibility increases the danger of driving. Wet roads can become slippery with the drop of a few degrees. On chilly mornings frost lies beneath the fog and makes walking a challenge. And sometimes I forget the simple joy of a mysterious morning and the embrace of the fog.

Sometimes I forget the awe of the Northern Lights. The aurora can surprise when it is least expected and paint the night sky with ribbons and curtains and rays and spirals, flickers and flashes. I am told that the lights reflect solar storms with intensities that are unimaginable to the dwellers of our planet. Earth’s atmosphere and magnetic field shield us from particles emitted from the sun traveling at millions of miles peer hour. But the scientific explanation is nothing compared to the sheer awe inspired by looking at the night sky in north country. I forget how powerful it is to simply be overcome with awe, standing in the cold with gratitude that I was there to see it all.

Sometimes I forget the gift of sitting still. I wear a watch that records whether or not I have stood and walked around each hour. I push myself to keep up with regular exercise and enjoy thinking of myself as an active person. I ride my bike up hill and down. And sometimes I forget how pleasant it is to simply sit still, inhaling and exhaling the gift of clean air, relaxing my body.

Sometimes I forget the power of shared grief. I have been given the privilege of being invited into the homes of grief, where death has left survivors overcome with tears and emotions. I have witnessed pain so deep that it cannot be cured, only shared. I have been trusted with precious memories stirred with mixed emotions. But I am tempted to rush on with everyday living and sometimes I forget the power of simply sitting with another in the midst of grief.

Sometimes I forget the joy of slicing and eating an apple. I can quarter an apple with a sharp knife and then slice each quarter into four. Sixteen slices of fruity flavor with just the right texture of crunch and softness to fill my mouth with joy. Sometimes I simply bite into the fruit and forget to savor. One slice at a time, noticing and enjoying each bite is the way to eat an apple, but sometimes I forget.

Sometimes I forget the simple pleasure of walking. My body is a miracle of muscles and bones and tendons and skin that allows me to stand on my own and move myself about step by step, but sometimes I simply rush from place to place without feeling the pleasure that is always available to me by simply walking.

Sometimes I forget the quiet of predawn. There is a moment each day when the coyotes stop singing, the loons stop calling, the gulls stop squabbling. It is as if all earth is waiting for the first glimpse of sunlight from the eastern horizon. Dark slides into light at an almost imperceptible pace. Some days, however, I sleep in and keep my eyes and ears closed to the quiet that is offered each day.

Sometimes I forget the brilliance of a rainbow. Horizon to horizon color that is the gift of a particular point of view and the power of light to pass through water molecules suspended in the air and reflect off of clouds creating brilliance that requires no witness. Rainbows paint the sky whether or not they are seen. And I am not always looking. Sometimes I forget how beautifully brilliant a rainbow can be.

Sometimes i forget the miracle of holding a tiny baby. When I reflect I can remember forcing my hands not to shake to prove myself worthy of holding such a precious gift. I have been trusted to hold tiny ones by mothers and fathers worn ragged from lack of sleep and in need of a brief respite. But it has been decades since I have been awakened by the tiny cry of an infant and sometimes I forget the miracle of those moments.

I am old.
Sometimes I forget.
Thank you, God, for the reminders.