As the first verses of “Lovers in Japan” give way to the chorus, Coldplay launches thousands of colorful paper butterflies into the audience. And I mean thousands, tens, maybe hundreds of thousands. And the butterfly cannons are re-loaded for the second chorus. Then the third. More butterflies each time. If I hadn’t attended a recent show, I would be unimpressed. Having been there, however, I must tell you, it us a magical, wondrous sight, butterflies, everywhere you look, swirling out of the ampitheatre on the breeze of a perfect Wisconsin night.

My thirteen-year-old son was seated – well, standing actually – next to me. Whenever I could, I would sneak glimpses of his sweet face. There he was, playing it cool (far cooler than his dad), but clearly thrilled by the experience nonetheless. And he sang along with every word.

I sang, too, but I would take breaks to listen to him. How lucky am I, as a father, to share this time, be it a moment, month or year, when my son’s musical interests intersect with my own? What a rare gift to belt out a duet with my teenage son! Oh yeah, Chris Martin sang too. He’s pretty good.

And then they hit me: the thoughts. When’s my first appointment Monday? Will my car be out of the shop? I’ve got to remember to change that one appointment. And so on. You get it.

Before I know it, the nerves hit. Instead of being in the moment, I’m anxiously scraping my fingers. Just like that, and I’m missing it.

So I tell myself to stop. Slow down. Close your eyes and breathe. And I hear the music, “Fix You”, one of my favorites and completely apropos. And I see my wife and son, singing along. And I decide to park those anxious thoughts somewhere else in my mind, somewhere besides the present. And just like that, I’m back, available to the moment.

In the end, it’s really just that simple.