39. Smell, surprise, savor, support, serve

When the tornado sirens sound* and the phone shrieks the weather warning text and I go to the balcony door and open it to watch the weather come, the rain in Little Rock in 2014 smells exactly like the rain in Bridgeport, Ohio, in the 1970s when a storm was approaching and my grandmother would go inside and pull her wood-framed bed away from the wall and I would follow Mom out onto the front porch to sit on the glider rocker together and watch the sheets of water pass by like a parade.

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Sometimes keeping up with the business of life is daunting. And then sometimes that publication that you never actually invoiced two seasons ago emails you with the form you need to fill out and tells you, "Please help us give you money."

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Kalamata olives. How can something as small as a measure of music release flavor as big and complex as a symphony?

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I was thinking seriously this morning about giving something up, and then three people I respect came along and said, "Keep going." 

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Having people over brings a trio of pleasures: working hard, to get the place picked up and prepare the food and make it all come out by the deadline of the doorbell; actually having people here, a roomful of life where it's usually just me and the cat; and afterwards, putting the rest of the food away for tomorrow, washing the dishes, the hands singing Compline in the hot soapy water, the heart harmonizing, grateful for every good gift of this day.

What good gift did this day bring you?

*The rain came and went. No tornado. Only water music through the open windows, and then a crosscurrent of cool quiet air.