On Today, Which is a Wednesday

On Today, which is a Wednesday, I bought a friend a lemonade and talked about important things and unimportant things, and complained about things that are unchangeable but frustrating. An eagle flew very low in front of the building where we sat, followed by another. It’s still baffling to me that bald eagles have become an ordinary sight. I see eagles more often than I see trash can animals! From there, I visited my favorite grocery store, where the produce is so beautiful and irresistible that I bought:

broccoli, kale, carrots, more carrots, potatoes, tomatoes, onions, garlic, leeks, and two large cabbages.

I stocked up on yogurt based greek-style dips, thinking they were vegan-friendly, (we aren’t vegan,) it wasn’t until I was in the checkout line that I realized there is absolutely nothing vegan about yogurt. Except maybe the vanilla flavoring. The checkout cashier, who was a real, live, cash-accepting person, had the most beautiful smile and when she said, “have a great day,” I really felt like she meant it.

On Today, which is a Wednesday, when driving home from the grocery store, I passed a semi that had crashed into a car, and for a few horrible moments, I thought I might see something awful when I got closer—but what I saw was a beautiful young lady on the sidewalk, talking on a cell phone and wearing a very big smile. She was clearly the driver of the smashed car, and beside her was a very big man, who was clearly the driver of the semi. They were both unharmed. She was smiling. (He wasn’t.) Everything would be okay.

There was a bald eagle on one of the trees closest to the eastbound bridge over the river, the one I cross to get home. It was a juvenile, kind of spotty still. The eagles have been amazing these past few winters. Everybody’s been talking about it for the past two years—”have you seen the eagles?!” We’ve all seen the eagles, but are none the less amazed by their presence.

On Today, which is a Wednesday, I passed a man walking down the sidewalk on Main Street with a cross of ashes on his forehead. He was older, wearing a casual suit. Where was he going? Had he walked to the nearby Catholic church for Mass during his lunch break? Was he headed back to the office on this ordinary, yet extraordinary Wednesday? Ash Wednesday is a required day of fasting in the Catholic Church—it seemed had he chosen the Bread of Life for lunch on this one.

On Today, which is a Wednesday, I was introduced to the incredible staff of one of our local homeless shelters, five people who were so alive and filled with joy that the room roared with it. I can’t remember all their names; I’m bad with names. A friend told me that it’s a belief that being bad with names is just an excuse for not caring enough, but I am here to tell you that couldn’t be further from the truth. I care so much about knowing peoples names, yet they escape me so often, and even if I know a name, I’m seldom confident enough to use them aloud. Like names, I’ve been trying for the better part of a decade to learn to identify all the types of clouds, to call them by name aloud. “Hello, Cirrus! Hello, Altostratus!” But clouds are so much like people, as much as I try try try to remember, I just can’t keep the correct names and faces together. “Hello, clouds,” I say aloud in the same way I say, “Hello, friend.”

On Tonight, which was a Wednesday night, there was a New Moon of which I caught a glimpse before it sank below the horizon, the horizon which holds the river trees and power plant stacks I’ve known all my life, not a picturesque way to view the sunset. Pretty ugly. But home. The air was warm and the sky was very clear and the stars were beautiful on my walk to meet my daughter as she came home from ballet. Last week we found ourselves driving out in the countryside and we stuck our heads out the windows of the van to see what constellations we could find. Constellations are a lot like clouds—after all these years, I’m afraid I still only know Orion.

Wednesdays turn to Thursdays, which turn to Fridays, turn to birthdays, turn to holidays, turn to months and years and decades and lifetimes. All this time washes away down the road and I will forget things. I will forget the man with the ashes on his forehead, I will forget the topics discussed over lemonade. I will continue to forget the names of clouds and humans and constellations. But even as I forget, I will keep trying to remember because all of these tiny beautiful things, all these little specks of light make up an incredible, small—incredibly small—life that is a part of other small lives, that are part of a huge picture, a mosaic of Existence, in which the small things are actually pretty important after all.