I’ve decided to push against the algorithm of outrage and negativity with a short vignette of joy I experienced this morning. It ambushed me as I was in my occasional morning office at the local coffee shop.

I was in a favorite spot by the window; banging out emails, thinking through the dreams and visions of leading a large volunteer organization – and pondering the purchase of a new softbox for an upcoming photo gig. Something diverted me from my rare moment of focus and my eyes rested on the wiggly toes of a newborn baby nearby.

Mom was taking a moment of quiet as baby (a girl, I later found out) contentedly sucked on her pacifier and did that gentle flailing of arms, legs, head, fingers and toes – as if she were dancing in her stroller to some unheard music.

I was transfixed.

In my moment of distraction from the work that hollered to get done, I let a quieter voice nudge me into a space of truly seeing and experiencing that moment. I watched her toes glow red as they moved in and out of the sunlight.

I witnessed Love’s creation – delicate fingers that, even in the restraint of the stroller, were still testing themselves with movement and exploration. Perfectly formed, yet still a delightful work unfinished – quivering with endless potential.

And in all of that energy and motion, there was still an otherworldly serenity in her eyes as she kept working on her binky – lips, tongue, nerve endings and muscle groups exercising together in preparation for conversations she would have over a meal thirty years from now.

Until her Binky popped out of her mouth.

There was a little confusion on her face at first. She could feel it, I could tell, pointed toward the ceiling and resting against her bottom lip. She marshaled resources that, for her, had been only potential before that moment. Lips curled, head bobbed, arms flailed, but Binky was just beyond reach.

It felt like an eternity. I realized that I was so hooked on this little story. Rooting for her. Wondering if her tiny force of will could solve this problem.

Her frustration grew, though, and she drew on another of her super powers to fix her predicament. With an inaudible chirp (dare I say a prayer?), Mom looked up and gave her a hand that returned Baby to her contentment.

I felt a queer sense of relief wash over me as I watched love’s simple intervention and the dance quiet, eyes drooping into momentary slumber.

I’ll let the reader take what they will from my poor narrative; but I left that sublime moment a better person.

And I thanked Mom for the blessing of the experience.