When you’re walking, you move slowly. You notice things like pebbles and puddles and ponds and peaks. Or patterns and pleasures and purpose and… presents.

You notice that presents, from ones who know you well and love you most, are things you really need. Or really want. You don’t even wonder how they saw your secret wishlist that you haven’t seen yourself. Because they’re part of you.

You may have had a birthday… yesterday, and after your favorite homemade fajitas, and homemade, gluten-free birthday cake made by your littlebear, it’s present time. You open sensitively and carefully chosen present after present as if your name was embossed on each one. You’ve been wanting something for that bare corner; it’s so perfect. She noticed your house needs a spruce. And your puppy needs a toy. He knows you need coffee. It hasn’t been mentioned in awhile, but they remembered the concert of your dreams and bought you a ticket.

When you’re walking, you notice things. You notice that they notice. Your eye sees the considerate, attentive present so carefully placed on your walk right by the patterns and pleasures. You feel thankful again for those who are part of you. Those who love you. Those who present you.