The Good Things

A space between darkness and light, just before the morning breaks over the knoll - one of the good things. The day hangs suspended, and I breathe shallow and steady so as not to wake anyone else. The world's breath has slowed as well. I want to savor the quiet, the perfection, of the stillness. Once the day's switch is flipped, the world springs to life and solitude vanishes. The moment, the feeling, doesn't happen every day but I learn to honor it when it does.

A flash of red snags my peripheral vision and I turn. It's spring and the cardinal couples are searching for nesting materials at my hanging bag of yarn and string clippings outside my bay window. Glass separates us but I stand frozen in place as they stare and size up the threat. Thirty seconds, maybe a minute passes, and then they are gone, blue and orange yarns beak-hanging. The bag is shrinking so I know they will be back until they have made all the nature-ordained preparations. Avian visitations make all good things better.

I have chopped and sliced a lot of onions in my life. Rarely does a dish come together without some form of onion included. As a child, I wasn't so keen on the flavor and I know my mother tucked

onions into everything, an Italian staple flavor whether we liked it or not. Today, I am my mother's cooking legacy as I do the same. Slice, dice, sliver, steam whole, au gratin, caramelized - an onion in any form is a good thing.

I look up from my phone (a ploy to seem occupied) as I stand waiting at the restaurant's front counter. They are busy and tables of two, four, and more are ahead of me. The hostess calls my name, careful not to add "party of one" for which I am secretly grateful. Her tag says Jamie and she chats amiably as we walk to a booth by the window, not one by the kitchen or restrooms. All the time in the world, her focus is on me, asking for my drink order, pointing out specials and favorite dishes. I settle in, purse to the side chair, and she assures me Erin will be with me shortly and she'll be back with my drink. And she was, despite those waiting for her at the front door. Kindness to every patron no matter the number in the party is humanizing, certainly a good thing.

The bottom edge of my favorite jeans is fraying, strings trailing across my instep. When the strings reach the floor, I trim them so I don't trip or create dust trails. I think I should consider retiring the jeans, the echo of my mother's voice reminding me it isn't acceptable to wear worn or torn clothes. I smile. Such a simple rebellious act, a secret salute to growing up, getting older, doing what I want. These jeans look, feel comfortable, like I want to be, like I often can't be, and remind me that even when worn down, I might still have value. The thread connecting generations can be a good thing.

A tap on the shoulder, not in person but through wireless connections. I am here; you are there. Sometimes it is all that is needed, the reminder that while we are physically alone, someone is thinking about us, nudging us, reaching out to keep us from falling. Conversations have changed, springing from fingers rather than mouths. No appointment, travel, proximity necessary. Newfangled for certain, far from the innovative stretched wires of Alexander Graham Bell, but attached at the earpiece to Steve Jobs. Connection, friendship, a hand up and out delivered via emoticon, text-speak, and clever graphics. Never being alone in our aloneness is one of the good things.

The smallest events form the tapestry we call life. What value, these good things?

Start a conversation here - share your small, good things. I am listening.