Oh, the small things. The small things are life itself, in all its fullness.
The tiny dog violets on my parents’ lawn, little specks of blue, which on close inspection are so very detailed;
The orange tipped butterfly, fluttering nearly as fast as my laughing daughter running along;
The moment or two lying next to the dog in the sun;
A field of dandelions;
A flock of goldfinches;
Driving under tunnels of green light;
Fresh herbs: their scent, the satisfaction of picking them, the act of standing in the kitchen, chopping and stirring;
Blueberry cake, straight out of the oven, the burst of sunshiney, sugary blue on the tongue, the hint of almond too;
A friend to pray with;
A good book;
Post: its arrival, and opening it, a tumble of confetti, someone’s handwriting and kind words;
A Spring breeze;
Music: the way it comforts and reaches in;
Hope: the way it’s always there, hiding in plain sight, among the small things, in the songs and the books, and right alongside the pain or sadness too, and living in the hands and smiles and souls of ordinary people.