April 30: I practiced yoga today in an Impressionist painting. Past my window, crepe myrtle leaves blurred a dozen shades of green. Blue sky punctured the canvas, and blades of last year’s ornamental grasses waved in the foreground. The screen of my iPhone was simply too small to show my teacher’s movements. So I surrendered my eyeglasses and wandered into 19th century France instead.
May 1: An old cottage in our neighborhood yielded its siding, bricks and radiators to salvage. But for this last day, its porch, doors and windows remained: perfect for a mom and dad to peer through the glass like homeowners — and for their two-year old son to gaze open-mouthed through the door, waiting, perhaps, for Goldilocks or (joy!) the Three Bears to invite him in.
May 2: As a pedestrian myself, I do exhibit extravagant courtesy to street-crossers and curb-walkers. Driving along a hilly suburban road with no one behind me, I chose to stop as a man, marooned on a traffic island, finished his crossing. I was in no hurry. And I was rewarded: I had paused just long enough to meet my husband, whose bicycle — to my surprise — happened to take him to the very same road at the very same time.
May 3: I was a little blue when I clicked onto my Zoom meeting. Sure, the sun dazzled before me, but it didn’t dispel my internal cloud. Until, that is, my meeting companion gasped: you have rainbows across your face! I peered into the tiny “self-view” and saw none. But my windowsill row of souvenir prisms — etched with New York City! Roma! Rocket ships! — did indeed refract the glorious light directly onto me. I do believe we need others, sometimes, to reveal our own possibilities.
May 4: I thought yesterday was a pretty nice day, with a bit of evening drizzle spritzing our faces as we walked. But today! A new world welcomed me. Fresh from a pre-dawn rain, the air was cool and dry and fragrant. Yes, heat and humidity were just finishing their coffee and would hustle to work. But every neighbor I passed joined me in savoring this temporary morning miracle.
May 5: Star-flecked rubber boots, pink pants and a very wet bottom greeted the large puddle on our street. Her daddy’s friend laughed in mock horror as the toddler stomped tiny sprays toward him. Her daddy, though, did the harder thing: just letting her play, and sit, and splash and get very very wet in what she knew — at that moment — was the most wonderful playground in the world.
May 6: Some old houses in our neighborhood get lucky. For over a year, my friend has worked with a handful of helpers to restore every inch of an old farmhouse. The debris collected out front, but the slow progress beguiled passers-by. Today, the front yard held nothing but bits of emerging garden — and a slim panel on the fresh concrete driveway bearing handprints of my friend and his family. We are here, the prints seemed to say, and we are home.
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