- Get link
- X
- Other Apps
The house is quiet, but not silent. There’s the soft thud of clean laundry hitting the bed, waiting to be folded. The low hum of the dishwasher. And from the living room, the sound of a hundred different Sundays happening all at once.
My husband is sitting on the floor with our youngest, half-building a tower of blocks, half-watching the television. It’s a dizzying collage of last-second touchdowns and unbelievable catches. For years, this has been the soundtrack to our autumn afternoons: the constant, breathless narration of the nfl redzone channel, jumping from city to city, story to story, without ever pausing to let one unfold.
There’s a part of me that understands its magic. In a life that often feels like a constant juggling act, it delivers the payoff without the preamble. All the thrilling moments, none of the waiting. It’s an answer to a world that has trained us to have our attention pulled in ten directions at once. It feels… efficient.
But as I stand here in the doorway, watching the screen flash from a game in Miami to one in Seattle, I feel a quiet pang. I remember sitting with my dad as a kid, learning the slow, unfolding story of a single game. The methodical march down the field. The tension of a third down. The collective breath held by a whole stadium, a whole city, for one single outcome. There was a rhythm to it, a patience.
We learned the players’ names, felt the weight of their mistakes, and celebrated the slow-burn victory that was earned over four long quarters. It wasn’t just a series of highlights; it was a narrative.
I look at the blocks, at the half-folded towels, at this beautiful, messy, in-between moment of our own day. So much of life isn’t the touchdown. It’s the huddle. It’s the slow, sometimes frustrating, drive forward. It’s the quiet work that happens when no one is watching, the part that doesn’t make the highlight reel. 🧸
I wonder, as we get so good at skipping to the good parts, if we’re forgetting how to just be present for the whole story. What do we miss when we only watch for the score?
My husband is sitting on the floor with our youngest, half-building a tower of blocks, half-watching the television. It’s a dizzying collage of last-second touchdowns and unbelievable catches. For years, this has been the soundtrack to our autumn afternoons: the constant, breathless narration of the nfl redzone channel, jumping from city to city, story to story, without ever pausing to let one unfold.
There’s a part of me that understands its magic. In a life that often feels like a constant juggling act, it delivers the payoff without the preamble. All the thrilling moments, none of the waiting. It’s an answer to a world that has trained us to have our attention pulled in ten directions at once. It feels… efficient.
But as I stand here in the doorway, watching the screen flash from a game in Miami to one in Seattle, I feel a quiet pang. I remember sitting with my dad as a kid, learning the slow, unfolding story of a single game. The methodical march down the field. The tension of a third down. The collective breath held by a whole stadium, a whole city, for one single outcome. There was a rhythm to it, a patience.
We learned the players’ names, felt the weight of their mistakes, and celebrated the slow-burn victory that was earned over four long quarters. It wasn’t just a series of highlights; it was a narrative.
I look at the blocks, at the half-folded towels, at this beautiful, messy, in-between moment of our own day. So much of life isn’t the touchdown. It’s the huddle. It’s the slow, sometimes frustrating, drive forward. It’s the quiet work that happens when no one is watching, the part that doesn’t make the highlight reel. 🧸
I wonder, as we get so good at skipping to the good parts, if we’re forgetting how to just be present for the whole story. What do we miss when we only watch for the score?
Image: Visual related to the article topic
Comments
Post a Comment