If nothing else, perhaps I’ll find that my near-sightedness will help me see all of life’s small pleasures, laid out before me, all within my grasp, though a few, to be fair, protected by barbs and thorns and poisonous leaves. I am grateful today for how the colors free, how spring’s bouquet adds depth to the light, still low in the sky, not for the promise, but for what’s already arrived, forsythia and heath, to be enjoyed alone. And lilac buds, comically fierce, like little girls dressed in full battle gear.
What I’m saying is that before I even began this regimen of happiness, I knew dividends would be paid on Day 4. I could exist smiling among men of riches because I have always appreciated the smallness of life, from tiny quartz pebbles that still line the mud puddle in front of my grandmother’s house to stolen kisses, the one crime for which one could never find an impartial jury.
Keep your mansions, your helipads and paella etiquette, all I want is an emotional odyssey, monumental heartache and the possibility of losing everything I hold dear.
At the window, I watch him lying in the grass, having found his wood chip, his acorn and his cat’s eye marble. All he needs now, he says, is the elusive 4-leaf clover. He’s playing alone, talking to himself, occasionally scratches his head. Instead of going out to join him, I take another sip from my glass and wonder, selfishly, if anyone ever stood by the door and watched me silently at that age. I want to pour out the liquor, and tell him about quitsies and keepsies. That the first three leaves are for hope, faith and love. That I live among a kingdom of tiny princes and maidens.
Results:
For Day Four, I woke up early enough to catch the morning’s light on my south-side garden to snap shots of a few small things that bring me great happiness. And for awhile, I was as happy as I’ve been in weeks.
Do I feel a little happier?
I’m not yet sold on the regimen, but neither am I complaining.
Tomorrow:
Take care of your health.