Finding Joy and Magic in Everyday Moments
There’s a quiet kind of magic in the small moments we often overlook. I used to think joy was something grand—found in big adventures, life-changing events, or rare, cinematic moments. Lately, I’ve realized that joy often lives in the simplest things: a walk by the bay, the crispness of winter air, and the playful energy of a happy dog.
This morning, as I wandered along the snowy shores of Cotuit Bay near Ropes Beach, I felt that magic. Mist hovered low over the water, caught between lingering warmth and winter’s bite. The bay itself wavered between liquid and ice, soft ripples lapping against frozen edges. Moorings bobbed gently, their rhythmic movement almost hypnotic. A lone working barge sat moored nearby, still and waiting as if resting between tasks.
I stopped and watched the water. It shimmered, undecided—caught between movement and stillness, reflection and change. I realized I felt the same way, hovering between the urge to move forward and the need to be still. That’s why I had come—to step outside, to shake off the weight of stillness. And yet, here I was, motionless on the shore, watching the water as if it might hold the answer.
Lately, I’ve been trying to notice these moments instead of rushing past them. And when I do, something shifts. I feel lighter, and more connected, as if I’m no longer moving against the world but with it. It’s as if the world itself hesitates sometimes, questioning its own stillness and motion, and in those quiet pauses, I can hear it.
How often do I resist simply being in the moment? Stillness can be uncomfortable, but maybe that’s the point.
The birds didn’t seem to mind. To them, this in-between world was nothing unusual. A flock of common eiders bobbed in the icy water, diving effortlessly beneath the surface in search of mussels and crustaceans. They moved as one, bound by an unspoken agreement—safety and purpose in numbers.
Not far from them, a great black-backed gull circled overhead, scanning the water. The largest of its kind, wings spread wide against the crisp blue sky, it rode the wind before suddenly folding its wings and plunging downward, slicing through the surface in a calculated dive. When it emerged, droplets cascading from its feathers, it carried a small fish in its beak—a prize won by solitude.
And then there were the sandpipers—tiny, tireless, their thin legs a blur as they danced along the shoreline. They moved together, an unbroken wave, following the water’s ebb and flow. Now and then, a single bird would break away, pausing, hesitating—perhaps considering the quiet of being alone before rejoining the others. I watched that lone bird and wondered: Do we choose togetherness for comfort, or is solitude sometimes an act of quiet rebellion? I’ve felt both—the longing to belong and the yearning to fly alone.
And then there was Dexter. My dog, my constant reminder to embrace joy wherever I find it. She tore across the snowy beach, a blur of uncontained happiness. Snow and sand—her two favorite things—meeting in one perfect place. She rolled in the snow, kicked up flurries of white powder, and chased the wind as if it might chase her back.
When Dexter is truly happy, she struts—her tail straight up, wagging furiously, her whole body moving as if in sync with an Earth, Wind & Fire song only she can hear. Watching her, I couldn’t help but smile.
What if we all let ourselves feel joy like that? Without hesitation, without overthinking—just sinking into the moment, trusting in its simplicity?
The sky stretched clear and blue above us, the air crisp with winter’s sharp embrace. I took a deep breath, feeling the cold sting my lungs, and let the moment settle into me. This—this simple, fleeting, perfect moment—was a joy.
So often, we chase happiness as if it’s something distant, something we need to earn. But sometimes, joy is right here, waiting in the quiet, in the ordinary. It’s in the mist over the water, in the effortless grace of diving seabirds, in the wild abandon of a dog playing in the snow. It’s in the way winter air makes you breathe a little deeper, see a little clearer, feel a little more alive.
We don’t always need more to be happy. Sometimes, we just need to notice.
Thom
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