I’m sat at my dining table in Oakland, California. A little fold-out number. It’s 10:35 at night. My father’s in town from England, and we just finished eating dinner (I know, how European)—my father, my wife and I.
Louis Armstrong crooned from the speakers throughout dinner. The dogs plodded back and forth from their beds in the lounge to the kitchen, where we sat. Dogs plural because we’re taking care of our friend’s excellent dog, Murray, for the week. Cacio’s best friend.
Toward the end of dinner—and throughout, really—we didn’t exchange many words. An occasional piece of happy commentary on one or the other of the dogs. An easy question about the day—about work for my wife and I; about the drive to West Marin for my father.
My gaze was soft, resting on the marble pepper mill in the center of the table. My eyes felt heavy; my belly full. I didn’t have all that much to say or the energy to say it. I was a little tired, but contented.
These small moments of shared stillness are what define family, for me. Close friends too. It’s low stakes and low expectations. You don’t need to be composed in any specific way. You can just be, safe in the knowledge that your company likely feels the same way.
I’ve written this slowly. It’s 11:00 now. I’ve paused to think, or not think. I’ve stared absent-mindedly at the colander of lemons picked from our backyard tree. I’ve run my finger along the crack in our table-top, and closed my eyes just for a second—or maybe a few seconds.
Slow, easy moments are the best moments. Shared stillness is a gift. Taking a beat to notice these moments is even better. I sincerely hope you managed to have some moments of your own today.