Priceless Things
What does ‘priceless’ really mean? What if some of the most valuable things in our lives are the things we would never think to put a price on?
I thought about that when I woke up this morning with a heavy pillow behind my back.
A few nights ago, I tucked a firm pillow where Dekker used to lean, hard, against me. It felt good.
My body seemed to recognize something familiar before my mind had even figured it out.
It didn’t change the fact that Dekker is gone, and it didn’t take away the sadness of waking without him. But the pillow gave me comfort, and it cost absolutely nothing.
That got me thinking about the word priceless.
Usually, when we say something is priceless, we mean it is so valuable that no amount of money could buy it. A rare painting might be called priceless. So could an antique or some family treasure passed from one generation to another.
But perhaps something can also be priceless because there simply isn’t a price attached to it, like a pillow at my back.
So can a conversation, an unexpected memory, or morning light across the floor because I stopped long enough to notice it.
I have been surrounded by priceless things all my life!
Priceless Things and
the Habit of Moving On
Sadly, most of my life has been built around doing something.
I don’t think I am unusual in that regard. I think many of us were raised to believe that a good day was a productive day.
We were expected to finish what we started, make good use of our time, and contribute something worthwhile.
There is certainly nothing wrong with that. I have enjoyed a great deal of what I have done in my life.
But lately I have been wondering whether I spend too much time reaching for what comes next: finish this, and move on to that, write the piece, answer the email, prepare for the meeting, clean up the kitchen, make the phone call…
Even things I love can become part of a production line if I am not paying attention.
Writing is a good example.
I sat at my desk this morning for about an hour, playing with words, but I am beginning not to think of that as work anymore.
It feels more like I am a little kid sitting in a sandbox, moving the sand around to see what I can make.
I push a sentence one way, pile another thought over here, dig a little deeper into an idea and see what turns up.
There doesn’t need to be a purpose with writing. Sometimes I am simply playing.
And I am beginning to think that may be one of the best uses of my time.
Priceless Things Ask Us to Notice
Photography has also been calling me back, but not in the way I used to approach it. I was always looking for a picture with purpose: to make cards, to preserve a family memory, to document a trip.
Heaven knows I don’t need another project!
What attracts me more today is the act of just looking.
A camera asks me to stop. It asks me to notice the light falling across a chair or the shape of a cloud.
It makes me see the texture of bark on a tree I have passed a hundred times, or the way water holds a reflection for only a few seconds before the surface changes.
One of my favorite photos of all time is a reflection of a tree in a puddle I passed by as I walked in the neighborhood.
The photograph may or may not be worth keeping, but it is the seeing that matters.
Writing does something similar. A writer has to notice what other people hurry past—a phrase overheard in a grocery store, the way someone holds a coffee cup, a memory that arrives because of a particular smell—all of these things can become doorways.
This is what ‘Presence’ looks like for me now. Not sitting cross-legged somewhere trying very hard to be mindful. Not adding another spiritual practice to my morning.
Just noticing. I am learning to receive what is already here.
Presence Doesn’t Always Feel Pleasant
Of course, being present doesn’t mean we notice only beautiful things.
Sometimes what we notice is absence.
I still expect Dekker to be in places where he isn’t. My body sometimes moves as though I need to step around him. Certain parts of my routine still seem to be waiting for him to show up.
Being present to moments like these can be painful, but I have learned that even difficult things hold something beneath them of great value. If I am present enough to see.
When I feel the ache of his absence, I also recognize the love that created the ache.
That doesn’t make loss easy, and I am not interested in turning grief into some tidy lesson about how everything happens for a reason. I don’t believe life works that neatly.
But love leaves traces, and it is those traces I long to recognize, to hear or feel or smell because they are evidence that something mattered.
Perhaps grief itself can be priceless in that strange way. Not because we would ever choose it, but because it reveals the value of what has been lost.
Receiving the Priceless Things
I have spent much of my life thinking about purpose, meaning, work, and what I might still contribute, but I am becoming more interested in a different question.
What am I receiving?
Am I awake enough to notice the small things that have no price attached to them?
The glass of iced tea that tastes especially good. The photograph I almost didn’t take. The sentence that surprises me. The person who calls at just the right time. The pillow behind my back that somehow holds the memory of a dog I loved.
None of these things will appear on a list of accomplishments, and that is exactly my point.
I want this season of my life to be shaped less by productivity and more by joy, love, and attention. I want to savor what is here before I automatically reach for whatever comes next.
The priceless things have been here all along and maybe I am finally learning how to see them.
An Invitation
Sometime today, stop for just a moment and look around.
Not because you need another practice to master, but because there may be something nearby that you have almost overlooked.
What is priceless in your life today?
If something comes to mind, I would love to hear about it. Leave a comment and tell me what you noticed.
Join us for more reflections on life if you haven’t already!
