I was flaming mad.

I had brought my car to the dealer specifically for them to explain why the check light on my car’s dash had gone on. I assumed the car was ready for an oil change even though I barely put on 3000 miles since I got it in December.

After dropping off Donatella Corollo (I like to name my cars), I walked over to a nearby Whole Foods where I bought an ice tea and slipped outside. I found a table and chair in a open air space between the store and the parking lot and opened the book I brought with me, prepared to kill a little time.

In practically no time, I got a call on my cell phone from the dealer’s service department. “We changed your oil and rotated your tires,” they said. “…But we noticed your check light is on. Do you want us to look into that?”

Although I knew the mechanic calling me now was not the man I first spoke to on the phone, I was livid. “That’s why I brought the car in! I went over all that on the phone and again at the counter when I checked the car in.”

I continued to get agitated when the mechanic started reviewing prices for performing different types of “recommended” maintenance. (It looked like my $50 oil change was going to turn into a several hundred dollar visit.)

My brain hadn’t quite kicked into rational mode where I could ask questions about the necessity for the procedures I was being quoted when I looked up from my phone.

I saw that a small bouquet of roses, fanned out and full, casually elegant in a clear Mason jar, had been placed on my table. I looked up and down the small apron of concrete that separated the store from the blacktopped parking lot. There were jars of flowers on every table.

My anger seemed to dissipate.

I proceeded to ask the service tech a few questions. I wanted to know whether his recommendations came from general guidelines or whether they were based on an inspection of the car.

As I decided what work I wanted done, I put my book down…and I marveled at the orange roses at my table.

The edges of the roses were darker than their hearts, than their inner flesh. They appeared to be weathered by the sun and humidity but very full of life.

Each flower seemed to hold multiple colors. The ones on my table were orange, but within that orange they were almost red at the edges of the petals and almost pink at their center. Their contours went from coral to salmon to something darker.

I had to stop and think. Some of the most beautiful moments in my life seemed to happen unexpectedly while I was waiting for something else.

I remembered how I saw a young girl wave at me from the back seat of a car her father was driving  (Wave, October 2013). I noticed her while waiting for a traffic light to change. I remember marveling at the patterns in my travertine bathroom tile as I adjusted the faucet, waiting to find the perfect showering temperature.

Maybe that’s what beauty is. When you’re not obsessing, when you are being open and present, whatever your attention settles on naturally, somehow, is what is beautiful to you.

Noticing where your focus goes while you are waiting is no small thing.