There is color everywhere. Speckled eggs on a dish, a new can of slate blue paint for the back door, my toenails, more rose and yellow and pale blue in the laundry pile. We leave the back door open; the kids and the dog meander in and out. This I remember especially to enjoy, because it will be too hot soon enough. Right now it's all open windows and fresh air and potential.
We poke seeds into the ground: spinach and lettuce and wildflowers, and I keep finding so much happiness in little things. Watching an indie film while the floor dries. Folding whites, wiping away dust. Naptime, sadness, the luxury of mindfulness because it means there is space in the day. Scribbling with chalk on warm concrete. Weather that warrants ice cream and trips to the park and skirts and dinner outside. I feel the sort of elation and then calm that comes after you take a leap of faith. When you look around, and it's enough, and it's also okay to dream, and the deepest-rooted thing I know comes back to me:
everything is spiritual; every day is a gift. There is the seen and the unseen. I let all this swirl, lift it back up, say