I was pouring some tea. During this most sacred of rituals, a drop of milk was spilt. It landed on the rim of the silver tea strainer: a tiny droplet of white, sitting hugging itself, looking rather perplexed.
This accident was a sure sign that I had been distracted. For the briefest of moments, my attention had been elsewhere. I know not where my mind had wandered. All I know is that in that moment, I had not been present.
A misplaced droplet of milk is not the greatest of catastrophes. Yet how much of life do we mess up in this way? How many moments, every day, do we lose our presence? And what untold tragedies, great and small, follow from these moments of distraction?
