On Sunday I woke to a pink sky. An eagle hung off the flowering cherry outside the window calling to something somewhere, competing with a tiny songbird who was celebrating the blossoms. Incongruous. Thrilling. Auspicious.

The day poured rain but there was slow-roast cabbage and herb-stuffed chicken in the oven for the Oscar marathon later. I ironed clothes and cleaned closets, the washing machine thumping. There were a scattering of touch-in phone calls, texts and emails. I put on my pajamas at 5pm. That, friends, is OK.

A day that might seem mundane was actually satisfying, filled with tiny stories that I could turn over late at night when the stars swam in the sky: stories of keeping order. Soap. Music. A basket of mending. A story of not working. A chance to let my mind wander. What do I want to accomplish this week? Maybe just that day. Maybe the rest of it will fall into place better because I took a day of reset. Maybe I will just be better prepared for the swoosh of to-do’s and must-do’s and have-to’s. Do you ever take that time to let the day gather in your hands?

I think of all those jokes about what is going to be written on our gravestones, obituaries we might write for ourselves. Mine will read,

”She loved butter and puppies and spring but nothing more than watching her children grow wings and become beautiful.” Maybe I will add the smell of lilac and laundry soap. Perhaps a line about breathing being the most essential involuntary precious gift.

What are your tiny stories?

They will be different day to day. That is the beauty of it all. Pay attention.