Today, I got up and read for hours. I filled all my birdfeeders for the first time in months. I took my fancy Japanese pruning shears and attacked the rose bed in front of the house, cutting away a pile of debris almost knee-high. I made a pitcher of sweet tea, the simplest of Southern beverages, something I haven't done in probably six months. Later tonight, if I can pry myself away from books and the computer, I am going to take the last glittering remnants of old gold polish from my toenails and apply a fresh coat of something bright and colorful.
It's time. It's time to reclaim the little things because life is made of them. When the little things go wanting, when I walk outside and see empty birdfeeders, gnarled and wild roses, when I open the refrigerator and there is nothing there but soda and an empty milk carton, when I look down in the shower and see those sad tatters of gilt among the suds, I feel worse about everything. They remind me that once again, I haven't taken care of my home, the things I care for, myself. They slap me again with the knowledge that I haven't taken even the tiny brief moments out of my hectic schedule to do those little things, have put them off "for another day" which never seems to come.
Doing them now feels good. It feels, ironically enough, like spring coming now in the middle of winter. It feels like waking up after a long sleep. I cannot keep putting myself and all the little things I love last. I won't last if I do. Everybody, including my doctor, tells me this all the time. Maybe I am starting to listen. Maybe we all should because if a small good thing can make the large difficult things less onerous, let's all have more of them, right?
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And then you said.....