After an afternoon of playing Grandma-nanny, the big kahuna (their mom) arrives home to take back the reigns. It's just a few minutes after 5:00 p.m., and sunset is at 5:15. It's a 30 minute bike ride home and I'm anxious to beat the dark. I wait just a few minutes for things to settle, then I head for the door and apologize for my rushing out by saying, "It's almost sunset."
When the door opens, the two little tigers move swiftly. We are all outside as I climb on my bike.
"What a beautiful time to ride home," my daughter says. My perspective shifts from rushing to beat the dark, to gratitude for the ride home at near-dusk.
And it is beautiful. Not only the almost-warm November night, but every little detail-- because of my daughter's words.
The setting sun sends its rays to light up the east side mountains. A small peak covered in snow is turned to brilliant white. The windows facing the setting sun are brilliantly lit like candlelight behind jack'o lantern eyes. Each house sits like a carved pumpkin on Halloween night.
The bike trail passes back yards and kitchen windows, and it is that time of night when first lights are turned on but window shades have yet to be drawn. My eyes are drawn to glowing kitchens and cozy family rooms. Tantalizing smells of a barbecue tell me it is dinner time and the day is winding down.
When the sun has almost completely set, I am astounded by the colors. I stop, take out my camera, document the moment, and send it to my daughter with the message, A beautiful time to ride home indeed.
The day before, I'd joined teachers and students across America to listen to documentary film maker Lynn Novick discuss her and Ken Burn's latest work. Throughout the ten year process of making Vietnam, she'd helped interview over one hundred people.
"When I meet people and talk to them," Ms. Novick said, "I'm fully present, I listen carefully, and there's no judgement. I leave my phone in the car."
Really listening to people has been her key to success and in creating such profound works of historical importance.
"What a beautiful time to ride home."
I had listened.
When the door opens, the two little tigers move swiftly. We are all outside as I climb on my bike.
"What a beautiful time to ride home," my daughter says. My perspective shifts from rushing to beat the dark, to gratitude for the ride home at near-dusk.
And it is beautiful. Not only the almost-warm November night, but every little detail-- because of my daughter's words.
The setting sun sends its rays to light up the east side mountains. A small peak covered in snow is turned to brilliant white. The windows facing the setting sun are brilliantly lit like candlelight behind jack'o lantern eyes. Each house sits like a carved pumpkin on Halloween night.
The bike trail passes back yards and kitchen windows, and it is that time of night when first lights are turned on but window shades have yet to be drawn. My eyes are drawn to glowing kitchens and cozy family rooms. Tantalizing smells of a barbecue tell me it is dinner time and the day is winding down.
When the sun has almost completely set, I am astounded by the colors. I stop, take out my camera, document the moment, and send it to my daughter with the message, A beautiful time to ride home indeed.
The day before, I'd joined teachers and students across America to listen to documentary film maker Lynn Novick discuss her and Ken Burn's latest work. Throughout the ten year process of making Vietnam, she'd helped interview over one hundred people.
"When I meet people and talk to them," Ms. Novick said, "I'm fully present, I listen carefully, and there's no judgement. I leave my phone in the car."
Really listening to people has been her key to success and in creating such profound works of historical importance.
"What a beautiful time to ride home."
I had listened.
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