Enough

I went for a walk along the Farmington River in Connecticut, trying in vain to undo the Thanksgiving eating fiasco from the day before.

It was one of those walking and biking trails that used to be railroad tracks. I wish we had one like it where I live in Maine.

At one point along the trail, there was an informative sign about an artist from the late 1800s. I’m guessing he used to paint there. To be honest, I skimmed the details.

My first reaction was judgmental. Why would someone paint here, of all places? I mean, it was nice, but there was nothing dramatic about it. It wasn’t the kind of scene that stops you in your tracks. Nobody was stopping to take selfies.

But then I noticed the flowing river, the rocks, the trees—sycamores and oaks—with sunlight filtering through their branches. It was quiet. Peaceful. Lovely, even.

What made me think he should have been somewhere else, painting something bigger, bolder, more awe-inspiring? What made me think a more impressive landscape would have made him a more impressive artist?

I’d fallen into a familiar, all too common trap.

I suspect many of us often feel like we should be somewhere else, doing something else, being someone else. Why is the here and now never enough?

What makes us think something better is always waiting around the next bend in the river? Not this moment, but the next one. Not here, but there. Not this project, the one after it.

That artist painted what was in front of him. Can we learn to do the same?