Little Things

In our forty years of friendship, Joy has rarely appeared at my door without a bouquet in her hands.  Last week, she--lover of all things blooming--brought me a tiny jar of flowers that spent their last pretty days on my table.

Sharon, also a lover of all blooming things, always brings flowers to writing group.  The last tiny bouquet lasted (incredibly, to me) two whole weeks.

Yesterday morning, a black Honda pulled into McDonalds about the same time I did and I gestured for her to go ahead.  When I pulled up to the window, I was told that the stranger in the Honda had paid for my drink.

Later in the day, out shopping with two friends, one bought a smooth stone heart and a bakery cookie for each of us.

Often (on the spur of the moment) my friend Freda calls to say she's made a certain dish and invites me over to share it with her.

Or Jan shows up at my door with a cookie or a slice of quiche from their dinner.

Or I share an idea with Carlene and she "thinks about it" with me.

Or I'm missing Day and the phone rings and it's her voice saying "Hi, Mom!  What you doing?"

Whether a little no-occasion present, a voice message that you want to listen to more than once, an email from a friend or a random act of kindness from a stranger--it's often the smallest things that infuse a day with color and make it bigger.

We might call a thing "little" because it doesn't cost much--but think of all that goes into the making of a single flower or poem! Think of all the mysterious paths it takes for something beautiful to land (seemingly so effortlessly) at just the right moment.  Think of the big love in every "tiny" gift from one person to another.

I love the poetry of Billy Collins.  Yesterday's Writer's Almanac poem was one of his--but I'd have missed it if Kate hadn't taken the time to forward it to me:

Adage
by Billy Collins

When it’s late at night and branches
are banging against the windows,
you might think that love is just a matter

of leaping out of the frying pan of yourself
into the fire of someone else,
but it’s a little more complicated than that.

It’s more like trading the two birds
who might be hiding in that bush
for the one you are not holding in your hand.

A wise man once said that love
was like forcing a horse to drink
but then everyone stopped thinking of him as wise.

Let us be clear about something.
Love is not as simple as getting up
on the wrong side of the bed wearing the emperor’s clothes.

No, it’s more like the way the pen
feels after it has defeated the sword.
It’s a little like the penny saved or the nine dropped stitches.

You look at me through the halo of the last candle
and tell me love is an ill wind
that has no turning, a road that blows no good,

but I am here to remind you,
as our shadows tremble on the walls,
that love is the early bird who is better late than never.