Field Notes for the Heart

The Gift of Small Moments

There are moments in life that arrive like unexpected blessings. Not the significant milestones or celebrations we plan, but quiet, fleeting encounters we stumble into during the course of our day. They’re small windows into someone else’s story—moments that change us not by their size, but how deeply they touch the heart.

I’ve often referred to these as “micro-moments.” After a summer filled with them, I’ve begun calling some of the most meaningful ones field notes for the heart. They remind me that the world, for all its vastness, becomes much smaller—more connected, more human—when stories are shared.

“I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”

Maya Angelou

The Stories We Carry

One of life’s great truths is this: none of us knows the weight of the story another person carries. Yet sometimes those stories come forward, without warning, in the middle of a simple “hello, how’s your day?” And in those moments, we are reminded that every life holds both suffering and strength.

This summer, my work placed me on the front line of visitor experiences—greeting, guiding, helping people from point A to point B. What might seem like simple work has been anything but. Again and again, it has reminded me that a small gesture of presence can mean more than we realize.

Here are three encounters from this season that will stay with me always. Details are respectfully adjusted to honor the privacy of those involved.

Dave’s Last Visit

Dave was walking the grounds, admiring the gardens. He paused over the perennials, amazed by the vibrant colors of the annuals. When I offered assistance, he waved me off, but later sought me out—he was too tired to make it back to his car.

As we rode together, he confided that this would be his last visit. Cancer had left him with little time. There are no words that feel adequate in such moments. I told him I was sorry and asked if there was anything I could do. He chuckled, “Well, you could get me some new body parts.” We both laughed.

When we reached his car, I promised to say a prayer for whatever he would have to go through. He turned and took my hand gently and said, “I’ll say one for you, too.”

Iron the Guide

Then there was Iron, a 14-year-old German Shepherd and guide dog. His leg had given out on one of the paths, leaving his owner worried. My vehicle had a ramp for assistive devices, and though I had never used it for an animal, down it came. Slowly, I led them both aboard.

Iron climbed up, lay his head in his owner’s lap, and did not move until they both were ready to exit. She told me this had never happened before, that perhaps it was his way of saying he was prepared to retire.

When I asked his age, she said with a smile, “He’ll be 14 in September - September 11th.” I smiled back and told her that was my birthday too. For a moment, it felt like Iron and I were quietly connected by more than chance.

Will and Grace

And then there were Will and Grace, an older couple from the West Coast. They wanted a quiet spot to rest. As we rode, Will shared their story: they had lost their home, and everything in it, to one of the wildfires out west.

Their daughter had installed cameras in their home to watch over them. On the day of the fire, from her house a few towns away, they watched in real-time as embers fell into their living room. They witnessed their home‘s destruction until the power went out.

Will’s eyes filled as he spoke. Grace, sitting beside him, took his hand and said softly, “That’s okay, dear. We still have each other.” Whatever the fire had taken, their bond remained unshaken.

What Remains

These encounters remind me that humanity has a way of helping us all show up—no matter the burden we carry, no matter the story written into our lives.

And often, the setting need not be grand. Sometimes all that’s required is a space where nature, beauty, and presence make room for us to breathe, to listen, and to remember that kindness, in its simplest form, gives strength enough to keep going.

“The smallest act of kindness is worth more than the grandest intention.”

Oscar Wilde

Talk soon…

G