Today I found myself in the downtown area of an old, little rural Ohio town. Surrounded by brick buildings, with a large, antiquated concrete community bank on the opposite corner. I stopped in at a local Chinese takeout place with my family for lunch. We ordered our food, and were told the customary “10 minutes”. While waiting for them to prepare our food, I stepped out onto the corner with my daughter.

It was… unremarkable. Another typical Ohio day in a quaint Ohio town.

But doing unremarkable things with a one year-old can suddenly make them remarkable.

My daughter stared in amazement at the cars going by, talking and waving to each one. She looked one way down the sidewalk and squealed, then turned around quickly and squealed in the other direction. She looked up and squinted as the sun shone on her face and the wind blew her bangs around.

And then strangely, I began to see and hear what was around me. I suppose I am always doing this, but there was something special about being acutely aware of my seeing and my hearing.

I suddenly saw the cars not as background movement, but as amazing marvels of engineering, each unique from the next. I saw the people in them. I saw how focused they were. I imagined their destination, their origin, their goals, their lives. Each so focused on their own. As I usually am.

I saw the buildings around me. I imagined their history. The tenants that each had their moment in the space. The decades of daily visitors passing in and out.

I saw the stop lights. Their simple design. Their rigid schedule. Easily understood.

I smelled the scent of the Chinese restaurant wafting out the door behind me. I heard construction in the distance and cars whooshing by. I felt on my back the gritty texture of the concrete pillar that I leaned against.

I felt what my daughter felt. Not with touch, but with my whole self. I stepped into her joy and her excitement. I looked into her eyes and giggled with her. I squealed at the sidewalk. I waved at the cars.

I transformed from agent to observer. I had no goal in that moment. I simply observed. It was nice. I felt like a little fly on the wall of my tiny corner of the universe, watching time and space move around me.

Usually I move through the world as if I am the universe. My thoughts blind me from what is around me. My thoughts seem to be all that exists. It’s a lot being the universe. It’s relaxing to not be the universe. To merely be part of it. Especially if you can be part of it with someone you love.

So grab someone you love and go stand on a street corner and look around.