The way the orchid on the windowsill sends up a new stalk bravely into the warm light by the glass, buds swelling with the promise of waxy petals, even though the ceramic bowl of moss and soil that hold its roots are all it has.
The way the sun comes up all over again, spreading the yellow paint of another morning across the sky, even though the night was long. Even though the clouds obscured the stars and the coyotes woke me, howling, and in the morning the neighbor said he’d lost another lamb.
The way my small boy goes, lips stained red with berries, running across the lawn to play contentedly with his chickies, while I sit on the stoop with my laptop and type unencumbered, watching. Even though an hour before he was glued to me, whining, tantruming, irrational.
The way there is always grace, even though the world is a place of anguish and everywhere my glance falls, text leaps from the page telling of another way that devastation happens. And it does.
I feel so lucky.