Happy New Year, try not to laugh …

Hard to write about anything today without commenting on the endlessly distressing news (er, and Happy New Year everyone) but I will now try to do that very thing. Those who know me, will testify that I have always been about savouring and appreciating The Small Things (even before it became fashionable to do so and we all had to read about the technique in someone’s bestselling book).

But truly, it really is all that we have.

I have noticed that generally, women seem to understand this concept more than men. I recall one beastly, rainy morning at the branch library where I used to work, when one of our regular patrons (a woman) came in bearing a tray of steaming, blueberry tea for the staff. We were thrilled with this unexpected treat and marvelled at the tiny blueberries bobbing in their navy-amber seas, the fruity, fragrant steam and this kind, simple act of thoughtfulness. As I moved to help the next person in line – a man – I explained what had just happened and commented on how nice it was. He glanced woodenly at the tea and then looked back at me, as though I was completely insane – or possibly a child of five. “This rain isn’t supposed to let up till the end of the week,” he said grimly. “Hope your basement isn’t flooded when you get home.”

Eeyore could not have said it better.

In no way am I suggesting that we should all be beside ourselves with glee day and night, picking daisies in slow motion or quoting glib quotes that have already been thoroughly digested via social media. (“Ships in harbour are safe – but that’s not what ships are built for” comes to mind and its recitation will not help anyone during an anxiety attack, even with the accompanying depiction of calm seas and a single schooner heading out).

But for me, especially during the pandemic/ US politics/ climate crisis et al, these very small things can often combine to make things right again. And, let us be real. Some days lately have been intolerably trying and very dark indeed. During those days, I can see no way out and both sleep and smiling prove elusive. It’s as though I am merely taking up space in a world that is truly evil and literally nothing matters. I then force myself to remember how lucky we are – right now – and sit beside the window quietly enjoying the weight of Stanley’s wiry head on my lap, watching the hawks swoop and circle across a sky scraped clean of cloud and colour, waiting for the usual version of myself to return and fretting that this time, perhaps it will not. But this is where The Small Things come in. Tiny steps, tiny efforts, tiny triumphs. Cooking has always been a grounding affair for me (especially with a Martini or two) and usually makes other people happy as well. Even the simple act of repotting houseplants produces a kind of satisfaction that can actually be measured in a day or two.

My eldest brother appeared at our side door on Christmas Eve quite unexpectedly, in full mask regalia and presented us with a personalized bag (almost a hamper actually!) full of buttery candied nuts, gourmet jams, some homemade wine (and this is the wine you really *want* to receive, as it’s glorious) and a dozen eggs from his very own and highly prized hens. He was in full-on Fezziwig mode but couldn’t stay as they had other bags to deliver. I found this so moving – and even now feel misty-eyed recalling the feeling it gave me.

My best friend in the world, herself on the front lines as a doctor during the Covid crisis and in a perpetual state of exhaustion, recently left some expensive French soaps on my front porch, randomly, with a pair of sparkling vintage earrings – just to cheer me on.

Taking photographs, reading poetry; being curious in general; watching ‘The Big Lebowski’; learning about someone’s else’s life experience (just finished reading Trevor Noah’s Born a Lie and highly recommend, for this very thing, by the way); admiring The General’s hair and how impossibly handsome he is first thing in the morning, these things are all nurturing to my soul. Also, I made the decision to keep the ‘Druid within’ going even post-Solstice, by lining a few of our windows with transparent bees whose abdomens are tiny lights. The General was unsure at first when he saw the bees going up, trying his best to remain a bit dour, but hilariously, I now notice him switching them on himself at the not-so magical hour of 4:30pm when the darkness starts to creep in and then asking, like a character from The Wind in the Willows: “Shall we have the bees on now?”

And of course, we shall.

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