The cat was snuggled in a ball on my lap, the fireplace was spreading its warmth and light in the living room as darkness was beginning to close in on the early afternoon, grey and lightly snow filled. Bob was in the other room talking on the phone. The doorbell rang, startling the cat.
"Answer the door, Bob. I have a cat on my lap." That is an unwritten rule in our house. Whoever has the cat has the privilege of staying comfortably in place.
Bob hung up the phone and went to the door. In a few minutes I heard children's voices, excited, happy. The cat fled for safety under the bed.
"Mary, come and see this."
At the front door were seven children, pre-school age, all looking up at us, smiling, eyes shining, waiting for the adult to start them in singing season greetings. As they sang, heartily and joyously, my eyes filled with tears. They were so eager, and filled with simple pleasure. It was cold and wet. They didn't seem to notice anything but the music and us, looking down at their faces glowing with delight.
Many in the neighborhood were not yet home, or were gone for the holidays. I was delighted that we were home to accept their gift of music. But most of all they shared their gift of the love of the present moment. Nothing else mattered to them at that instant but the music, so carefully rehearsed at the neighborhood day care down the block. That reminder of the preciousness of "now" was the most unique offering they brought to our front door this afternoon of December 21, 2011.
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