Last Friday, I flew out of my house at three minutes to the final bell at the elementary school, leaving a half-finished email open. I ran my fingers through my hair and slapped on some lip balm at the stoplight before roaring through the neighborhood and arriving at the school.

As I forced tennis shoes onto the feet of my five-year-old, the school bell rang. Actually scratch that. We don't have a bell any more. The school is using the more soothing "chimes" to announce the end of whatever periods. So with four descending notes on a scale, I picked up the pace, racing with my youngest up to meet my kids, so that I could race home and finish that email.

I hustled up to the school. I hustled the kids past their friends and my friends who were enjoying the thin sunshine and the official start of Spring Break with a few minutes of conversation at the park. I waved and smiled and shouted a few greetings and made it back to the van in record time. With the kid buckled in and the engine revved up, we headed home, my mind already racing ahead to unfinished business.

Stuck at the one red light between the school and my house, I noticed for the first time that the sky was filled with giant clouds in almost greenish grey hues. The kids, no doubt worn out from our high-speed trip to the van, were silent. The wind was moving these mammoth clouds across the sky and I was transfixed. I had forgotten that clouds moved, that my surroundings aren't fixed backdrops.

I lingered in the driveway while the kids gathered their backpacks and ran into the house. There wasn't anything particularly amazing about the clouds that day - it was only that I was actually seeing them, as if for the first time in a long time. I thought about taking a photo, but it was the movement that mesmerized me.

Finally, with a shout from one of my kids, I tore my eyes off the sky and headed back to my email. It suddenly didn't seem as urgent.