“Enjoy the little things, for one day you may look back and realize they were the big things.” Robert Breault
Full of intentions, I bought a small blank book about a month ago. It travels everywhere with me, because at any moment, I need to be able to open it up and add another entry. And I have had so many brilliant, inspired entries, you would be proud of my work. Well, maybe not, because none of them have actually been written down in the book. They swim in my mind, appearing randomly when they feel the moment is right.
Inspired by a book I read, I meant to document the joys that come along in ordinary days and in that process, to turn my view from what is half empty to what is overflowing. There are therapeutic techniques similar to this, and I know they work. Having a depressed person keep a diary of positive things that happen every day (even basics like the ability to walk and breathe) can chip away at negativity and feelings of hopelessness. Describing a pleasant memory in detail can change a person’s blood pressure and respiration rate—and even elicit a smile. I kid you not.
In the midst of a slump, I decided to therapize myself. Even though I know in my head that my life is awesome, I needed a little nudge. It is so easy to focus on the freedom, time and energy I don’t have as a mother at 53, and to forget to look beyond that to the richness present in the worst of days.
Back to my little book– patiently waiting in my purse right this very moment. Even though I haven’t actually put ink to it, I am writing every day. It is very interesting where this takes me. My first imaginary entries were obvious joys and wonders—starry skies, people I love, warmth on a cold winter night–pleasant and comforting.
Noticing the things that I tend to overlook –delighting in the beauty of a perfect bunch of radishes before they become part of a salad, or the house filled with the aromas of a slow cooked soup—has now become a pleasant habit I’m working on. (And since life is mostly about habits, I would like to develop more pleasant ones.) After many weeks, I find myself looking more closely at a beautiful pepper as I cut it up, admiring its color and construction, thinking about where it was grown.
There is more, though. You may think this is sick, but my mixed among my recent additions is what happened to my best friend from high school. I visited her yesterday, but there wasn’t much to say. She’s in a persistent vegetative state; brought on suddenly by a brain tumor she never knew she had.
How can I be thankful? Because she had every moment she could eek out of life. Because she got how to make it work, even though she could have chosen not to. She experienced so much tragedy, sadness, and unfairness that you would wonder how she kept going. Yet, enthusiasm for life, warmth and humor defined her. Always.
In the end, although we can desire and even demand ‘fairness’ and be angry and bitter when it doesn’t seem to happen (as in a shortened life), what are we really entitled to? Nothing. Everything that happens after the first breath we take is a gift. Our choice is what to do with that time—every second of it.
When I woke up this morning, I was so grateful for the sunshine, for another day to play in this world, and work, and feel pain, and cry, and go on doing dumb stuff like filling out tax forms and taking out the garbage that make up what it’s all about. Even the awful unbelievable things that stick in my gut and make my eyes tear up, are part of the glorious experience of being alive. So are the frustrations and the failures. They are all gifts; not just the fun stuff.
In a way, it is better that I haven’t written anything down. There is more room for the constant dictation in my head than there would be for actual writing on the pages. This morning, I described the delight of finding the chickpeas I’d soaked the night before, plumped up like magic in their bowl; then how delicious they smelled simmering with spices on the stove as I worked at my desk. How the mess around me made me smile instead of seethe because I was able, for a brief moment, to see how it came about—from the energy of a lively family rushing out to school and work in the morning. This is my life, my opportunity.
I do not know what it’s like to be in a coma. I am curious, and hopeful that she is in some wonderful alternate state, able to experience things in a way we cannot. Or to dream fabulous dreams, the kind you don’t want to wake up from. But, whatever it is, she is no longer able to touch the ones she loves, to see their faces, to take in the smells from her garden or to cook a fabulous dinner. All of those things I walk by every day, often oblivious to their existence. They are everything. My little book reminds me to take note. Even in my often sieve- like brain, those notes matter.