My sister went to a farm and held a baby goat in her arms.
She told me that holding it felt like 'joy welling up within her'.
My mother came to town for a work-week visit and gave me the level-best moment of my whole entire day: a long embrace in late April morning sunshine.
At the house in the remote woods of northern Montana, where the river swells most springs into the fields, where my sister once wrangled the old row boat to float over sodden wheat fields, where at dawn (or any other hour), you can lace on your runners and cross the border into Canada, swift as four miles passing under your determined feet, at this house my father tends to the past, herds away the wild things that live fervently.
My little sister is baby-skinned and blue-eyed and blooming with shy, earnest, comforting love. To my stories she listens.
My old dog is dying, more quickly now, but he still turns over for a belly rub, still sleeps beside me, little curved sweet-potato body. I will grieve this assurance, for pure assurance of unconditional love it is.
The puppy at the park is but six days old, is nothing but soft and steady and eager life.
And small things--watch for them: sunshine on the kitchen floor.
The random act of grace.
The woman who stops you and asks where you got your shoes--linked humanity, just like that.
The coffee beans are new and shiny with oil.
The job can be done if only you begin.
There will be hot water for washing, cool water for drinking, there will be people happy to see you.
There will be more light in the sky for longer.
Thanks for reading.
Beth
