A (0:00)

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B (1:01)

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C (1:34)

I'm Maggie Smith and this is the Slowdown. I think attention is a form of love. I know this as a parent, a friend, a teacher and a poet. So many of my poems were made possible only because I took the time to look at my surroundings, listen to the wind and the birds, touch leaves to know their textures, breathe deeply to describe what the autumn air smelled like. Being sensitive, attuned, observant. These things don't just improve your writing, they improve your life. I know this. But knowing it doesn't mean it's easy for me to stay tuned in and attentive in the moment. My attention is also constantly tugged at by the stuff of life. And I know I'm not alone in that. You feel the tugs too. The tug of deadlines, the tug of endless emails. My inbox never stops tugging. The tug of children and school and family obligations, the tugs of to do lists and errands, the present is full of distractions. But it's more than that. One of the gifts and one of the burdens of being human is our ability to remember the past and also to look ahead to the future. We're reflectors and we're dreamers. So often in any given day I'm thinking about the past or planning for the future, thinking about work or trips I'd like to take or things I can look forward to. I'm trying to do better, to put my phone away when I'm out with friends and family, to resist documenting experiences by taking photos or taking notes, to just be. Today's poem speaks to the challenge of staying in the present moment and having gratitude for that moment when memory is always doing what it does best, calling to us from afar. Wind Blue Sky By Susan Eisenberg I am practicing being in the moment to think. Wind blue sky Grandson singing in his stroller Phagola for little Bird, as my mother would say. I am trying to feel the ropy muscles of my legs tighten and release, rhythmic as a metronome, with every step to feel on my skin, tangible as some human touch, the soft morning air. I am trying to attend to the distant crow, if he is a crow. I am practicing at practicing. But here comes memory, insistent as the birds cry, sparked this time by an old photo my son's hung beside the guest room bed I rise from each day, my smiling dead mother caught in the moment. He's made her laugh, their heads close together as they tread the shimmering water of a lauderdale pool, her face wet and crinkled with joy. He has taped below the frame's border a strip torn from her calendar, sad prophecy in her lefty scrawl. Sunday 4pm wedding, a date she'd never see. Bring your attention gently back. So here's my grandson watching a sun struck white car. See the white car. See the nice man walking his doggie. See the big tree. And here are three young girls, long braids shining, passing on their bikes. One lifts her fishing rod in greeting and is gone. The Slow is a production of American Public Media in partnership with the Poetry Foundation. To get a poem delivered to you daily, go to slowdownshow.org and sign up for our newsletter and find us on Instagram @downdownshow and blueskylowdownshow.org hi, it's Maggie. The Slowdown helps you discover new poems and revisit old favorites. You can help us continue showcasing poetry from a diverse swath of authors and by making a tax deductible gift head to slowdownshow.org donate today.