02 October 2026 • Being Present • Memories • Human Experiences

It was one of those mornings when nothing seemed right. It had been raining non-stop since morning, and I was late for a meeting.

My colleagues were calling.

I hurried towards the car with an umbrella in one hand.

My trousers were wet around the ankles, and I was in a bad mood. Instead of enjoying the weather, I was frustrated by the rain.

Why today?

The roads were crowded. Water had gathered along the roadside, slowing the vehicles.

Everyone was in a hurry. So was I.

Then, on the way, I noticed a group of children.

Some were cycling through the puddles. A few were running barefoot along the roadside, while others simply played in the rainwater, completely soaked.

They seemed to have forgotten everything.

Cars honked. Some people shouted at them to move away from the road. Yet the children remained unmoved by the clamour. They carried on with their adventure.

For a moment, I watched them from the car and wondered when we stopped enjoying the rain. The rain had not changed. We had.

For me, rain meant wet clothes, traffic, delays, and the possibility of missing a meeting. For those children, it meant freedom. It meant an occasion.

There was no schedule to follow and no thought of time.

They were simply there.

Perhaps this is one of the losses that comes with growing up.

Somewhere between childhood and adulthood, we begin measuring our days by what we have completed rather than by what we have experienced.

We make lists. We chase deadlines. We keep waiting to be happy until the next task is finished, the next promotion arrives, the next goal is achieved. Then another task appears.

And somehow, life keeps waiting for us while we remain busy preparing to live it.

We are lost somewhere between growing up and growing busy.

That morning made me think about how easily an ordinary day can pass unnoticed. We often imagine memorable moments will announce themselves. They rarely do.

A beautiful evening does not tell us it will become a cherished memory. A conversation does not warn us that we will remember it years later.

Sometimes, it is only rainwater on a roadside.

Years from now, I may not remember the meeting I was hurrying towards that morning.

I do not even remember what was discussed. But I remember those children cycling through the rain as though they had been given the whole day simply to enjoy.

Perhaps they understood something I had temporarily forgotten.

Life does not always need to be made extraordinary. Sometimes, we only need to notice that we are living it.

The rain will come again. We will probably complain about the traffic, reach for our umbrellas, and hurry towards wherever we need to be.

But maybe, once in a while, we can stop.

Look at the rain.

And remember that an ordinary day, while we are busy trying to get somewhere, may turn out to be a day worth remembering.

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