Every day is its own tiny story

Now that the days are blurring together, I've started asking myself each day: What's this day about?  What's its main point?

What little paragraphs and word choices are going to add up to a whole?

What unexpected phone calls will move the plot of the day?

What unexpected event will puncture holes in it?

What gifts will come?

What memories will rise up out of nowhere and make me wince or smile?

What conversations will put things right?

On painting days, I leave my phone in the house and spend the first half of the day in the casita.

Last night I stayed up so late watching Press that I wound up derailing my painting plan for today. Due to a little floating thing in my eye, I decided to change course and go to Vision Source (where I was able to get an eye appointment for Monday). Then I went to my favorite store (Jerry's Art O Rama) and bought two little pastels to try out, then to Jo Ann's to get a gold Posca pen.

Two visual gifts arrived, along with intangibles:

The bark of a tree

A stack of hula hoops at Jo Ann's

I called Kate and she gave me the name of the dentist who has replaced the one we both used before he retired.  While she was at it, she gave me the name of her new favorite AC man recommended by our shared plumber, Tony.

I thought a good cry might release whatever is in my eye, so I watched "Call the Midwife."  It didn't get rid of the spot, but it cleared out my eyes and soothed me, as it always does.

The nuns and civilian midwives, the townspeople, a nurse's dying grandmother in prison for performing illegal abortions, the doctor, the young doctor whose drug habit is revealed: everyone is kind to patients, friends and strangers.  Kindness is a sweet remedy for almost everything.

Another gift: the episode ends ends with the voiceover of the writer of the memoir on which this series is based:

The seasons will always turn,
The clouds will gather,
And the cold will come.

We will survive them and grow,
regardless of the weather.
We will know wonder
where there has been despair.

And there will be happiness,
and we will remember it.
There will be friendships
that we won't forget.

Love is the constant
whereby we endure all winters
and all storms.
It is the climate in which all things can thrive.

Welcome the darkness
Embrace it as a canopy
in which the stars can hang,

For there are always stars when
we are where we ought to be,
Amongst the faces we love best,
each with our place, each with our purpose....

The darkness is beautiful.
For how else can we shine?