Smallness today is grace, is gratitude. I feel small.
I feel like the young spring chick still warm in mother's nest, my mom and I in the car, her warm smile and her hands on my face, as she reminds me, "Oh Hil, you're at the age where all this begins, where all the leaving and the transition and the beginning is." And she cups my chin towards her blue, blue eyes (the ones I only half-mirror in my own) and I am small again.
I am small and I'm still cracking open the egg around myself, still poking my head out of its shell on this blog and into this world, and maybe this is just the first of the days of feeling small.
And in the smallness is a little ache of praise, because when you're small the world is one of wonder. When you're small you can lace your fingers together giggling and widen your eyes with surprise that this is what the world is.
And the discipline is the ache of praise:
21. For the front seat of my car where I whisper the secret thoughts of my heart to mom
22. For lying in front of the Santa Barbara mission in the sunshine
23. For snow on the first day of spring
24. For The Low Anthem's song, [Don't] Tremble
25. For watching bluebird eggs open in a nest.
And a special thank you whispered for this poem:
Gyroscope (Ted Kooser)
I place this within the first order
of wonders: a ten-year-old girl
alone on a sunny, glass-in porch
in February, the world beyond
the windows slowly tipping forward
into spring, her thin arms held out
in the sleepwalker pose, and pinched
and stretched between her fingers,
a length of common grocery twine
upon which smoothly spins and leans
one of the smaller worlds we each
at one time learn to master, the last
to balance so lightly in our hands.