The irises, amaryllis, and petunias are popping in my yard this morning. Green is dressing the naked trees as I steam half-and-half for my cappuccino. Last night, my body stretched into the familiar mattress, and my head snuggled into my satin-cased pillow. My cat Rosie curled herself into the crook under my neck and against my shoulder, and I woke to the warmth of Steven next to me. Today I’m noticing what’s here and now because I’ve been away for a few days.

I have a gratitude practice. I name the deep purple of the irises, the purrs as Rosie settles in, the coffee and trees against the sky in the morning. And still, when I return from away, I discover them with new senses.

I wish I didn’t require absence for this depth of gratitude that I feel on return.

When my brother and his family lived in Colorado, my family was in constant awe as we drove into the mountains to visit, skied down the slopes in the winter, and chased wildflowers around mountain-top lakes in the summer.

“You must have to pinch yourself every morning, waking up here.”

Any member of my brother’s family might give me a blank look. It’s not that the beauty of a place wears off. It’s that our vision becomes muted. Familiarity is a thief of wonder. And absence is often the antidote.

In one week, I’ll experience an absence of a different ilk. I’ll begin my participation in an 8-week study, during which I can only ingest what the cooks at the Pennington Biomedical Research Center give me.

Like my eyes to the irises, my mind is muted to how I move (and eat) through the day. I might take my first bite at 2 p.m. Maybe it’s warmed up leftovers, but it’s just as likely some peanut butter smeared between two slices of bread. I might take my last meal or snack at 6 p.m., but chances are just as good that I’ll have dinner at 9 p.m. Lately, I’ve had a single meal of chicken tenders warmed in an air fryer and eaten with ketchup.

The study will be a jolting wake-up call. Maybe I’ll experience an awakening, like coming home to the colors and comfort of my home. Or maybe the awakening will be rude, and I’ll rue the day I signed up for the study.  I’ll have a steep curve to climb for this schedule: I can only eat between 8 a.m. and 6 p.m. If I’m mindless and don’t take my first bite until 2 p.m., there will be hell to pay.

I’m mostly curious, however, about the colors and comforts I’ll rediscover on the other side of the study. What will I miss the most? The freedom of schedule or the frothy half-and-half in my coffee? The handful of cashews as I pass through the kitchen or the glass of wine at night?

I was happy to return home last night, not because I was uncomfortable in my brother’s home for the four nights I spent in Houston. But because, without putting fretted thought into it, I’ve intuitively appointed my home with the comforts that bring me peace. I’m not sure my study experience will align with that, but I do know this pattern interrupt will make me more mindful—and perhaps more responsible—about what, when, and where I consume.

What absences or pattern interruptions have helped you find more appreciation for what you have right here and now?

©Pennie Nichols. All Rights Reserved. 2025.