A Field of Tulips, and the Things I Almost Missed

We 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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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