Like leaving the closest parking spaces for others.
Over time, that simple practice expanded into dozens of small acts of consideration. Not dramatic gestures. Just quiet awareness of the people around me and the people yet to arrive.
Dan and I were together exploring neurofeedback for our clients when news of the attacks on the Twin Towers reached us. I remember walking out of my office and seeing staff members crying as they tried to tell us what had happened.
My first thought was, “What have we done?”
I meant it in the broadest human sense. How had we arrived here? What conditions had brought us to this moment? What responsibility do we all carry for the world we create together?
Spending time with Dan always expanded our view of life and enlarged our circle of belonging. We shared an awareness that our lives are connected in ways we often overlook. Simple yet profound connections that quietly shape the quality of life for those around us.
After we both left the agency, we continued to meet occasionally at Starbucks.
We would catch up on our practices, our work, and our lives. Yet somehow the conversation always returned to ordinary things. A simple question or an observation about the world and our place in it.
Then Dan would say something small. Just a sentence. I learned to pay attention to how his gentle comment reverberated through my being.
Sometimes long stretches of silence would settle between us. Neither of us rushed to fill them. We would sit with our tea, each following our own reflections until one of us felt we had something worth sharing. Or not.
I came to appreciate these simple statements which would often unfold over weeks or months, perhaps gradually becoming another lived practice.
The older I get, the more I realize that wisdom often arrives quietly. Not through grand teachings, but through regular moments with ordinary people who have learned how to pay attention.
A parking space. A deep breath in the midst of tragedy. The pleasure of a perfectly placed rocking chair. A slow conversation over tea.
Dan eventually moved across the country in search of a slower life. I was happy for him. It seemed exactly right.
The funny thing is, I never miss Dan. Not because he wasn’t valued in my life. Quite the opposite. I thoroughly enjoyed our exchanges, our clinical collaboration, and all we discovered together.
Those people who are a beneficial presence in our lives somehow remain present.
I still leave the closest parking spaces for someone else. And when my passenger points out that I missed a few spots by the entrance, I smile.
Because Dan is right there with me. An invisible reverberation of a lesson well modeled.
