small gifts

It’s fairly easy, if you have a bent towards being anxious, to ruin a good day. I’ve found that to be true. It’s also though, truly amazing, that I often experience a day or a portion of a day and think….wow, what a gift!

My son graduated college on Saturday, and of course, I expected it to be a celebratory day. Which it was. And the next day, Mother’s Day, was also celebratory and I was able to spend time with people I love. I try to remember these days, or times if they aren’t the entire day, are gifts. Little gifts given by the Universe. Or God. Or whatever you want to call the Giver of Gifts [I choose the previous, thank you]. But they are real and they are what makes life worth living. Bearable. Interesting.


I shared a moment with some women I work with yesterday. I got confused. Had one of my all too common {ditzy} scenarios in which I don’t quite grasp what’s going on. And once I figured it out, and shared, we laughed. We joked. We reacted. A gift. Of laughter and joviality and friendship.

I don’t want to forget. That eating lunch with my daughter on Monday at Shake Shack is a gift. She’ll spend the entire summer in New York City. But on Monday, for a brief time, we could eat and talk and share and be together. And that’s a gift.

note the Basquiat shirt


One of my piano students. I asked her who she liked. Musically. What kind of sheet music I could find for her. We’ve worked some from her dad’s Beatles songbook. But I sensed a change might be good. Oh, we use a regular kids’ lesson book. The normal. But she likes to play other stuff too. She has a good ear. Her response? Norah Jones. She’s about to complete fifth grade and likes Norah Jones and I am so happy because I, much older than a fifth grader, like Norah Jones. Kindred spirits we are, my student and I. So Norah Jones I will find for her to play. A gift. She didn’t say Taylor Swift. And I am thankful to the God of the Universe for that.

When my son texts me with good news. When my daughter sends a video of Pharrell Williams waving at her as he passes during NYU’s commencement. While she’s simply working her campus job. These are gifts. Little moments which bring happiness.


The freedom to drive a middle school girl to a youth orchestra audition. Catching up with another girl as you drive her to an event. Being a part of people’s lives. These are gifts. Watching your friend’s husband greet an 8th grader you work with after his promotion ceremony, knowing without his tutoring, the boy might not have been promoted.

Remembering you like to write. Need to write. Should write. That reminder is a gift. Because sometimes we forget. I forget at least. What’s essential. What I’m here for. Who I’m here for.

My back porch is a gift. As I sit here and type. The sun sets and I realize I am inclined to think and process and ask too many questions. Instead of simply accepting.

I want to earn. Acquire. Feel I deserve. Instead of just taking. Reaching out and grabbing. Or waiting until it lands on my door. Hard work is a virtue yet. Come what may brings, more often than not, an opportunity. It might not change my life. It will most likely not be the highlight of the season. But it will be real and real is what is just that. Real. Tangible. Capable of bringing me home. Or taking me somewhere else.

 

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