An excercise in focusing on the un-mundane
Every morning I have a secret routine, performed alone, filled with the commonest things, but enacted just so, each becomes a shimmering brick in my resilience.
Every morning I step outside into the back yard, wander up the thick grass, to peer at the new growth near the tree, near the rosebush. Every morning I notice tiny changes, the new fiddleheads popping in damp corner, some of them already unfurling. The new leaves on the honeyscuckle. George's catprints in the vegetable patch.
This morning I caught the eye of a squirrel sitting in our eavestrough, and it chittered at length about matters of utmost importance before skittering off over the roof.
This morning Dave emailed me to ask me if I was alright at work, and the sincerity of his concern lifted me above the clouds that my boss was coalescing in the hallways.
This afternoon I wandered Yonge street, attempting to block out the concrete and the stains, and my altered field of vision stumbled upon a handful of greenery peeking from a sidestreet. Looking closer, I noticed so many of the same leaf patterns as some of the wild growth in our own back yard -- and I felt less intimidated by it.
This afternoon I ran around on errands, saving the world and documenting it for posterity, but I also --
climbed up on the radiator and threw paper airplanes at the girls.