Solitaire

I like the game of solitaire on my phone.  It's close to mindless, but each click of a card gives a sense of temporary rightness.

When I miss a possible move, I'm reminded of missed opportunities in a day.  Or when I pay attention to the big moves and ignore the little 2s and 3s, it makes me wonder how often I do that in life, too--keeping my mind on one big thing, I forget to notice that everything can change when I move something small.  I like the way the phone cheers and applauds when I get it right.

Working on the apartment has been an opportunity to move familiar things into new places and feel that same "click" when an old thing finds a more favorable place.

Moving the smallest thing can open up a space for something new--like the antique pine piece Mike bought me yesterday.  It's marked up with insect holes and scratches and has ten large drawers inside for much-needed storage.  The grain of the wood, the dovetailed joints, the patina that only age can give--it all adds a soulfulness to "Nana's room."  (Elena calls that room "Nana's house.")

But the difference is that now I'm not moving everything solo.  "I'll do it," Mike says, moving in a heavy piece of furniture.  "I don't want you to hurt yourself."  Or he hangs something and it's not quite right and he hangs it somewhere else.  And when I have an idea, he says, 'That's perfect!"

He pays attention to the large and small details, trimming out over flaws, perfecting the sheetrock and paint. (I've gotten so used to flaws I've been unable to repair that I barely see them anymore.)  But when they are fixed, everything looks just right, and I can hear cheers and applause.