<![CDATA[Devin Peterson - Ordinary Joy]]>Mon, 28 Sep 2026 09:49:28 -0700Weebly<![CDATA[A Field of Tulips, and the Things I Almost Missed]]>Mon, 20 Apr 2026 18:11:06 GMThttps://www.devinpeterson.com/ordinary-joy/a-field-of-tulips-and-the-things-i-almost-missedWe went to the Dalton Farms Tulip Festival in Swedesboro, New Jersey
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It was, by all accounts, a simple outing. Rows of tulips stretching further than seemed necessary, people scattered throughout the fields, taking pictures, walking slowly, occasionally stopping without much reason at all. It is the sort of environment that invites a kind of pace that feels unfamiliar—unhurried, unstructured, almost resistant to productivity.

​Which, in itself, is somewhat disorienting.
There is something about spaces like that—wide, open, and intentionally unproductive—that expose how accustomed we have become to moving quickly. Even when there is nothing pressing to do, we still feel the impulse to move on, to progress, to extract something from the moment that justifies our time. But a field of tulips does not really allow for that.

It does not offer anything to accomplish. It simply exists. And the only way to experience it properly is to do the same.

To walk.
To stop.
To notice.

And even that, I am realizing, is not as natural as it should be.
At some point while we were there, I found myself looking at my children. Not in a passing way, but in the kind of way that interrupts your thoughts.

My five-year-old, moving with a kind of independence that still feels new, and my five-month-old, entirely dependent, unaware of anything beyond what is immediately in front of him.

Both present in the same space, yet occupying entirely different stages of life.

And it is difficult to ignore what that represents.

Time is not abstract in moments like that. It becomes visible. Measurable. Almost tangible in the distance between the two of them. What feels like a short span is, in reality, a series of changes that do not wait to be acknowledged.

I found myself wanting to stop it.
Not in a dramatic sense, but in the quiet, internal way that wishes a moment could hold its form just a little longer. There is something about seeing them side by side that makes you aware that what is happening now will not remain as it is.

It will change. It is already changing.

And the instinct, at least for me, is to want to preserve it.

But I am not entirely convinced that we are meant to.

Because if we could freeze these moments—if we could hold them in place indefinitely—I am not sure we would actually learn to value them in the same way. Part of what gives a moment its weight is the fact that it does not last. It moves whether we are paying attention or not.
Which means the responsibility is not to preserve it,
but to attend to it.

To recognize it while it is happening.
And that is, perhaps, the more difficult task.

It is easy to say that we should appreciate these moments, but appreciation requires something that we are not always willing to give—our attention. Not divided attention, not partial awareness, but the kind that fully engages with what is in front of us without immediately translating it into something else.

A field of tulips does not demand that kind of attention. But it quietly invites it.
And if we accept that invitation, even briefly, we begin to see that what we often categorize as “ordinary” is not necessarily lacking in substance. It is simply lacking in recognition.

The colors, the movement, the presence of people you love in a moment that asks nothing from you—these are not insignificant things. They are, in many ways, the things that constitute a life.
Not the milestones.

Not the events we plan for months in advance.

But the moments that occur in between, unnoticed unless we choose otherwise.

I am not entirely sure that I did this perfectly.

In fact, I am fairly certain I didn’t.

There were still moments where my mind drifted, where I was thinking about what was next, where I was not fully present even though I had every opportunity to be. Which is why the title feels appropriate.
Not just a field of tulips. But the things I almost missed.
Because that is, more often than not, where these moments exist—not in what we fully experience, but in what we nearly overlook.

This is, I think, what I am beginning to learn.

Not how to hold onto moments, but how to enter into them.

Not how to slow time, but how to be aware of it.

Not how to make life more significant, but how to recognize that much of what is significant is already here—quietly present, waiting to be noticed.

​And perhaps that's enough.
]]><![CDATA[ORDINARY JOY]]>Mon, 20 Apr 2026 18:02:42 GMThttps://www.devinpeterson.com/ordinary-joy/ordinary-joyJoy is a peculiar thing.

It is not entirely clear that we ever really know where it resides. We assume that it is located somewhere ahead of us—attached to an outcome, a moment, or a circumstance that has yet to arrive. And so, we move toward it, often with a great deal of intention, believing that if we can just arrange things properly, we will eventually encounter it in a more permanent or sustainable form.
But this assumption rarely proves to be accurate.
In fact, it seems that the very things we identify as sources of joy are often the things that distract us from it. We pursue significance, believing that it will add substance to our lives, yet in doing so, we unintentionally shift our attention away from what is already present. And because our attention is misdirected, it is not that joy is absent—it is that it goes unrecognized.

This is, at least in part, what I am beginning to notice.
There has been a consistent pattern in the way that I have approached my time, my responsibilities, and even my relationships. Much of it has been oriented toward what is next. The next opportunity, the next obligation, the next moment that appears to carry enough weight to justify my focus. And while this orientation can be useful, it carries with it an implicit assumption—that what is in front of me is not quite enough.
But life does not primarily consist of what is next.

It consists of what is.

And what is, more often than not, is quite ordinary.
This presents a kind of problem.

If joy is something that we associate primarily with what is significant, and life is largely composed of what is ordinary, then it follows that joy will be experienced infrequently, if at all. Not because it is unavailable, but because it is not being sought in the place where it most often exists.
Which raises a question—one that I am not entirely sure how to answer yet:
What if joy is not something that emerges from significance, but something that is embedded within the ordinary itself?
If this is the case, then the issue is not that we need more meaningful experiences, but that we need a different way of attending to the experiences we already have.

This is where things become somewhat difficult.

Because there is a persistent inclination to interpret the ordinary as insufficient. To view it as a means to something else, rather than as something that can be entered into fully. And so, even when we are present within a moment, we are not necessarily engaged with it. Our minds are oriented elsewhere, toward what we believe will matter more.

I am not convinced that this is sustainable.
Nor am I convinced that it is accurate.

Take something as simple as a cup of coffee.
It is typically treated as a transitional object—something that accompanies movement from one task to another. It is consumed, but not really experienced. Yet, when approached differently—when one actually sits with it, attends to it, allows it to be what it is—it becomes something else entirely. Not extraordinary, necessarily, but not insignificant either.
The same could be said of time spent with family.

It is often categorized as secondary, or at least as distinct from what we might consider to be more meaningful work. But this categorization seems questionable. Because when one actually considers what constitutes a life—what is remembered, what is valued, what is ultimately carried forward—it is not immediately obvious that these moments are lesser.

If anything, they may be more central than we tend to acknowledge.
Which creates a kind of tension.

On one hand, there is the desire to pursue what is significant—to build, to lead, to create something that extends beyond the present moment. On the other hand, there is the growing awareness that in doing so, we may be overlooking the very substance of life itself.

I am not entirely sure how to resolve this tension.

But I am beginning to suspect that it is not meant to be resolved in the way that we might expect.
Perhaps the issue is not the pursuit of significance, but the assumption that significance is where joy is primarily located. Perhaps joy is not something that we arrive at, but something that is encountered along the way—most often in the places that we are least inclined to look.

If that is true, then the ordinary is not empty.

It is, in fact, quite full.

Full of moments that could be received, if we were willing to attend to them. Full of meaning that does not announce itself. Full of a kind of presence that does not demand recognition, but is available nonetheless.
And perhaps, though I am still working this out, full of God.

Not in a way that is dramatic or overt, but in a way that is consistent with the nature of most of life—quiet, steady, and easily overlooked.

Which would suggest that joy is not something that we produce, but something that we receive.
And if that is the case, then it cannot be found by continually reaching beyond the present moment. It would require something else—something closer to attention, or awareness, or perhaps even restraint.

This is, I think, what I am learning.

Not in a definitive sense, but in a way that is beginning to reshape how I move through the day.
To slow down, not as a technique, but as a necessity.

To observe what is, rather than constantly interpreting it through the lens of what it could become.
To engage with the ordinary, not because it is all that exists, but because it may be where most of life is actually taking place.

This thread—these reflections—are, in part, an attempt to practice that.
Not to arrive at a final conclusion, but to continue paying attention.
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Because it seems increasingly likely that what we are looking for has been present all along.
We have simply been looking elsewhere.
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