And so, they wait. They watch the sky with their dancing brown eyes and wonder when she will open up the storage house for the first time this season. They stare hard at dark trees to see if they can make out any white, even a little. They want to have a cup of cheer with Jack Frost and Farmer Brown, Rudoph and Frosty.
And I remind them It might not and Sometimes the forecasts are wrong so as not to get up hopes. I think of the trouble, of the wet and the freezing and the red chapped hands. I check the cabinets to be sure we have hot chocolate. I stand behind them and squint my eyes out the windows, too. And I pull out the scarves just incase.
we wait together
December 4, 2010
small beginnings
December 2, 2010
It’s a helicopter. He drew the lines at the bottom first, then a slow circle to connect with the blade on top. He’s four, so it doesn’t look like much. But art starts out that way – small.
It’s a scrap of paper with scribbles on it. But those scribbles represent thoughts I had while driving, thoughts that may develop into the key points for an entire chapter in my next book. I jotted them down in the Target parking lot. It was raining, I think.
But it’s like I said before – art nearly always starts out small. Acorns turn into oak trees. Embryos become President. Love starts with hello. Life starts with a breath. All small, like Bethlehem.
Small things don’t always turn into big things, but big things always start out small. Lean into small, celebrate small. And in the words of a wise friend and counselor, don’t despise the days of small beginnings.
