This morning, I found myself walking with my granddaughter, feeling a bit blue. Disappointed that plans that didn’t pan out. Stuck. Ordinary. Small. With such a sweet companion, it seems impossible that I might have felt so, but there it is.
But then, as I pushed the stroller into a sunny patch on our walking path, a dragonfly hovered mere inches from my face just as Nancy Wilson sang, “The Best is Yet to Come.” It seemed that maybe the Universe was sending me a message, telling me that I am okay where I am. That good things are coming. That pleasure and purpose can be found in the insignificant and mundane moments.
Sometimes I wish I was living a big life, the kind in which I have influence and connections, a substantial platform from which to speak, tangible evidence that I am leaving a legacy; a life without limits. My spirit’s wings are itching explore the skies far beyond the one I have been living under for so long. But that doesn’t seem to be where the Divine One is sending me. Instead, She sets me at home, keeping me humble and grounded as I endeavor to make small ripples in a tiny pond.
A beautiful life is not made by enduring the ordinary moments, but by being fully present in them. By imbuing them with love and joy and gratitude. And that, dear friends and readers, is a choice.
Diapers. Music. Hugs. Dirty dishes. Walks. Invoices. Glasses of cool, clean water. The changing of seasons. It’s all magic. Ordinary magic. And that may be the most powerful magic of all.
If you have never heard this delicious song by Nancy Wilson, give it a listen!
Kimberly Bryant, MA 
Shortly after Mom died, after I had gone to the funeral home with my sister to arrange for Mom’s cremation, I was feeling pretty blue, myself. I stopped off at the local Kroger store to get something, and after I returned to my car, I happened to look up at the car parked in front of me, facing me, and I saw one of those little nodding flowers in the flower pot sitting on the car’s dashboard. Those were Mom’s favorite little things and she had three of them sitting on the window sill in the kitchen. I realized then that somehow, she had sent me a little message that everything was eventually going to be ok. And, it was – despite the pure hell of getting her house ready for sale and all that other crap I had to deal with before moving out of Texas – ahem.
I think the people we have loved send us messages all the time. I feel my grandmothers so closely some days. I hope you’re well and happy up in the west! You look to be, that is wonderful!