Twinkle

It was one of those evenings where everything that I'm going to remember about the day happened in about 45 minutes. And within those 45 minutes everything looked beautiful, the mountains were a little sharper, I breathed a little deeper, I made my supper a little slower, and standing outside my room with all the lights off and the stars twinkling above (with the moon half full) I talked to the universe, talked to all that is bigger than I am. I leaned my head back, closed my eyes, and let everything out. I teared up, felt everything cut pretty deep, opened my eyes, and rattled off a short monologue to the silhouettes of the mountains about how I was eternally grateful for everything; what I've seen and done, what is to come. To think we're all so small, just little dots on this Earth, and sometimes things that we experience, we see, feel so big, immense, shaking. It's times like tonight that I want to store away in my memory, in my heart, wherever they're easily retrievable, so I can pull them out when I need a reminder... a little boost... or maybe, I should say, something that will bring me back down, connect and ground me to the bigger picture. So that's what I did, I wrote everything I was thinking in my journal, I committed what I could to memory, and then I took out my colored pencils and the plainest piece of paper I could find and wrote THANK YOU FOR THIS LIFE. I got the gummy, sticky, tacky stuff that I use to put up everything on my wall (it even works to plug up leaks in a tin roof... trust me I've tried it!) and I put it up on the side of one of my new shelves, right at the end of the bed, so when I wake up in the morning, that's the first thing I'll see when I open my eyes.