When Someone Shows You What You’ve Been Missing

He came back to the Inn this week.

There was a perfectly ordinary reason for it. A few final things needed attention around the property, and since he had been involved with the work before, seeing him again shouldn't have felt unusual.

But I would be lying if I said I didn't notice when he arrived.

Enough time had passed since our conversation on the porch that I had started to wonder if I had made too much of it. Maybe it had simply been one of those rare conversations that catches you at the right moment. Maybe the strawberry starts were nothing more than a thoughtful gesture.

I had even managed to convince myself that the repaired fence might not have had anything to do with him.

Then he walked through the door, and somehow I knew I hadn't imagined any of it.

He was a little different with me this time. Not distant exactly, but careful. I think there is a difference between the two.

We exchanged the usual pleasantries, and I showed him some of what had changed around the Inn since he'd last been there. Eventually, we made our way into the Kitchen.

I've spent weeks turning that room into something I've imagined for years. The pink and white striped walls were finally finished. Picture lights glowed above my recipe artwork. The shelves were filled with coffee cups, bowls, teas, and all the little things I've collected simply because I find them beautiful.

He stood in the middle of the room and looked around without saying anything.

I waited.

By now, I knew enough about him to know that his silence usually meant he was thinking.

"You did all of this?"

"Most of it."

He looked toward the artwork, then the shelves, and finally back at me.

"You have a habit of making the things you imagine real."

I smiled. "I try."

"No," he said. "I don't think you realize how unusual that is."

That made me quiet.

Compliments are lovely, of course. But there is something entirely different about someone noticing a part of you that you didn't realize they had been paying attention to.

He walked closer to one of the framed recipes.

"So this is the bakery."

I looked at him.

Weeks earlier, on the porch, somewhere between strawberries and our conversation about building a life, I had mentioned that I sometimes wondered if I had missed my calling. In another life, I told him, perhaps I would have owned a little bakery or restaurant.

I'd nearly forgotten I'd said it.

He hadn't.

"You remembered that?"

He glanced at me, and some of the carefulness he'd carried into the room disappeared.

"I remember quite a bit of what you say."

Well.

There are some things a woman knows better than to answer too quickly.

So I didn't.

For a moment, neither of us said anything. His eyes stayed with mine just a little longer than they needed to before he turned his attention back to the room.

And then we continued talking as though nothing unusual had happened.

I was beginning to understand that about him.

He doesn't say too much. But every now and then, he says just enough.

We talked for a little while longer before he left, and after the door closed behind him, I stayed in the Kitchen.

I wasn't thinking about what might happen between us. There are circumstances in life that deserve to be respected, even when something unexpected makes you stop and take notice.

Instead, I found myself thinking about what meeting him had already shown me.

I missed conversations with depth. I missed being asked questions that made me think. I missed the feeling of someone being curious enough to remember something I'd said weeks before.

And perhaps more than anything, I hadn't realized how much I missed having someone look at something I had created and understand that it meant more to me than the pretty things they could see.

That was worth paying attention to.

Because sometimes we meet someone and immediately assume that whatever they awaken in us must be about them.

I'm beginning to think that isn't always true.

Sometimes another person simply makes you aware of something you've been hungry for.

Maybe it's conversation. Maybe it's curiosity. Maybe it's tenderness, laughter, ambition, peace, or the simple pleasure of feeling understood.

And sometimes you've gone without it for so long that you stopped realizing you missed it.

That doesn't mean the person who reminded you is necessarily meant to become part of your life in some larger way.

But I do think the reminder matters.

I've started asking myself a different question because of it.

Not, What is this supposed to become?

But, What is this showing me that I want more of in my life?

I think that's a much more useful question.

Perhaps there is something that has caught your attention lately too. A person, a conversation, a place, or even a feeling you haven't had in a very long time.

Before you decide what it means, notice what it woke up in you.

You might find that the most important thing wasn't the person at all.

It was remembering that you still wanted more.

Warmly,

Mika
Mikasa of the Inn

P.S.

A familiar bit of handwriting appeared beside one of the framed recipes later that afternoon.

“Not everyone who reminds you of what you want is meant to give it to you.”

— Lady Staywell