My mom and I never lived more than a few hours apart but we wrote letters and sent home made cards at least once a week for decades. She made me this wonderful card with a fall leaf from our yard. As I write this the same tree is again red, like it is every year at this time. She wrote to me about the simple pleasures: some really fresh fish, a visit with her sister or subtle observations of changing seasons. She wrote about things that kept her grounded and gave her some joy.
I wrote to her about some kind of complication -- a sniffle, frustration with a class or work, a relationship that wasn't working out. I really do try to find joy in the simple things but it’s just not my forte. When I do find joy in a simple thing it’s usually some piece of junk I've picked up in the street or by poking ridiculous fun at the culture I (try to) live in.
As we get older we sometimes realize how much we are turning into our parents. It can be a frightening thought! Today I'm wishing I could be more like my mom in the way she would gotten up this morning to run outside and pick up the most beautiful fall leaves before she even finished her instant coffee.
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