I don’t stop and smell the proverbial roses.
Instead, I rush past them with eyes to the asphalt.
“Aren’t those lovely roses?” someone would ask.
Halfway to the other side of the world to do the next thing on my never-ending to-do list, I would yell back “What roses?”
With a simple, slower lifestyle, I have the time for smelling roses. Heck, I have time to plant them, watch them bloom and arrange them in a centerpiece.
Still in the habit of looking down, I have to remind myself to taking in the pieces of life I’ve don’t usually notice.
In all my 26 years, I’ve observed a storm’s brilliance or, rather, acknowledged it. I do like a good rainstorm, but there was never time to watch the drama of the clouds unfold.
In Niger, the time is there. I smell the rain as if for the first time. The cool breeze graces my skin like the human touch and the heavens play a sympathy accompanied by a light show.
My mind quiets to Mother Nature’s magic and leaves me with one questions: Are storms better in Africa or I did I just fail to care in the U.S.
The answer is neither relevant nor important. What is is the ability to appreciate the norm in a new wonderful way. ‘Tis one of the many reasons that brought me to Niger.