What I look for I will find.

Ambling about the minor metropolitan known as Colorado Springs with my husband in our giant bus of a vehicle, pole after pole is pointed out to me, a smattering of lines attached, streaming from each of them. "We changed that one out last Thursday when I worked late." "I did that one when I was an apprentice on Moss' crew." "This one here caught on fire." An electrical lineman for Colorado Springs Utilities for nearly 20 years, the man is impassioned with, enthralled over, captivated by power lines. They're not something I would ever, not once, notice if left to my own oblivious-to-such-crucial-matters devices. I mean, I covet electricity as much as anyone. Use it every. single. blessed. day. But the method of its movement to from point A to its arrival at destination B would not be regularly considered, if it weren't for the shorn head man that shares my illustrious electricity charged home.

I wonder how many people are like me. Tether-fully obliged to the wondrous illumination it provides our existence, yet unconscious of the awe of its production and the precious nature of its carefully constructed, maintained by lineman like my husband, route. And that's just electricity.

It happens to be a lot like me with babies.

Haven't you seen the sheer number of pregnancy announcements dotting the pages of social media?! I ask my friends. "Uh, no. Not really. I haven't paid any attention." They reply.

Everywhere we go, I take note of women with gloriously swollen bellies, "we're expecting!" proclamations, and newly born, sweet smelling, feathery haired infants. I Can Not Help It. After spending the last 4+ years yearning and longing and hoping and praying and trying for (which is a lot of work, right Bobby?) a tiny little wee one of my own, my senses are primed. I can sniff them out anywhere. Pregnant Women. Newborn Babies. Wonder of All Wonders. The Gift of Birth. Nary a single one will escape my awareness. As happy as I am for friends and love ones to experience the joy I so desire, each one pierces my heart a deep shade of green.

Yet most of my peers, gleefully beyond that stage of their lives, scarcely notice at all.

It reminds me of the acupuncturist who recently asked me if any of my tattoos were Chinese symbols. Of course my tattoos are not Chinese symbols! I don't know the first thing about Eastern medicine, very little about acupuncture, and harbor shamefully scant knowledge about China itself, for that matter. (Except for the next to near impossibility of purchasing any actual thing that was not produced there. I am certainly aware of that.)

She is an doctor of eastern medicine. She sees eastern symbols. Her senses are honed, her mind studied, her perception molded by the reality of her life in the making.

I can't help but wonder how my own life could be enhanced by shifting my expectation, sharpening my senses to see what is lovely and breathtaking and wondrous and excellent and common but rarely noticed. What if I allowed myself to take a beat with greater regularity, to slow down and express gratitude and praise and goodness, to engage in the exquisite simplicity all around me, to marvel in the faces and actions of the children I love, in the friends I keep, the husband who adores power lines?

What if I focused my intention toward expecting great, everyday things? Not naive extravagance, or the absence of heartache that befalls us all, but genuine bountiful, prolific, unabashed, basic, every day good? What if I polished my senses through routine practice to witness the best of what my moments had to offer me, with a full, glad heart?

Would I see more good, would I find more extraordinary in the every day momentum of my vapor of a life if I trained my eyes to look for it? I suspect I would.

My guess is we all might.

It might even be worth the effort.

* Our first salad bar for dinner of the season. A summer treat everyone likes, especially mom because no matter what you choose off the line every plate is a picture of health.