I love the every day, the again and again of days unfurling into months into seasons into years. The ordinary, nearly insignificant moments that pile together to make a day are among my most valued treasures. I want to capture these bits, arrange them with words so I can hold them and examine how each adds up to making this little life of mine shine.
These moments, many of which can seem drab and ugly and gnarled, are the basics of each day. The laundry, the kitchen conversations, the bath-book-bed routine, the one more hug, the packed lunches, and the oatmeal with fresh berries every morning make up bits of ordinary. This is not to be confused with sameness, themundane events marking the minutes of each day.
Rather it is the rhythm of the moments I choose to embrace. It is a choice. The day never goes as I planned. My minutes have too much free will. This used to bother me, before I became a recovering perfectionist.
Now I find magic in moments posing as meaningless. When I seek these bits and write them down, I find significance in story. I’m pretty sure this is my mission in life — to find significance in story and inspire others to do the same.
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