I am on a frigid morning run, nearing the end of my route, when I spot an abandoned Little Caesar’s pizza box about five feet into the road.

My 3-year old daughter gets a jug of milk out of the fridge to pour a glass. But I say no because she’s sick. “We don’t drink milk when we’re sick, darling.”

I put it back in the fridge. She smiles at me and says, “I’m gonna get that milk myself !”

Now I have two options: fight, or play.

I am making an americano at home. I run my finger along the edge of the portafilter, angling my index finger like a snowplow in an attempt to sweep the grounds into the basket. A clump of them falls to the counter.

For some time now, I’ve been aware of my tendency to get through my days as though they’re something to achieve. This way of engaging with my life (and the things I’ve got to do each day) affects how I show up in the moment.

What will happen if I am present, even for just one moment of each day? I want to welcome my life as it is, not as I wish for it to be.