I find myself noticing the small things more.
The purple flower that emerged after the rain.
The grass growing through the cracks in the sidewalks.
The birds singing to one another as they move from branch to branch, their figures barely recognizable against the long, naked trees that reach for the winter sky.
These little things feel familiar but new, as if I’d noticed them once before, a very long time ago, and then forgot them.
And now, as I slowly awaken after a long sleep, I am rediscovering the details that make the tapestry of life so magical.
I wonder if we even taste the food we eat anymore.
Do we smell the dirt we walk on?
Do we find beauty and meaning in the raindrops gathering on the leaves like little snow globes in a sea of green, the forces of surface tension and gravity, attraction and weight creating a moment seemingly stable?
Precision is not my forte. Feeling is.
And I feel alive when the little things make me pause.
My cold breath against the night sky.
The feeling of the rain on my skin when I forgot an umbrella.
The whisper of the moss in the concrete square that appeared just as I called for it.
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