Little Things

I think that the little things kept my mother going through cancer, since so many of the more traditionally important ones were off-limits or impossible. When you can't go outside, the tweeting of a bird at the window is a bright spot in a monotonous day. When all your body does is hurt, an hour nap is a beautiful thing. Three months after her death, as I spiral into one of the most suffocating phases of grief (when the Toad Cave looms behind everything I do), I notice that the little things are all that feel important, some days. I only have a small fraction of my normal energy, so I have to be proud of myself for running in the unseasonable cold when before, I did it every day. A caring note from a friend means the world.

I have been thinking a lot about how to pull myself out of the cave. I discovered that a midday bath, in my particular bathroom, is a soul rejuvenator. (Listening to Charles Bradley at the same time helps even more.) I relaxed in the bath salted water in my tub, adding more and more hot water to the lukewarm silk of the bath oils. Then I had an exquisite moment under the shower, looking at the sun streaming through the water, making its way from the skylight to my face. For just a minute, I felt like everything might actually be okay, like my mom always used to tell me.

Some of my more prosaic small pleasures include: Vitamin Water Zero, warm breezes, a cat purring, my living room on a sunny morning, my block at night.