Follow a Thread of Goodness

 I recently began reading Ross Gay's Book of Delights, and true to its title, it is delightful. I keep it tucked away in my purse, pulling it out to savor a short essay-ette, as Gay calls them, when I wait for a tire to be changed or for a doctor to call my name. I marvel at the way Gay relishes the small things that bring him joy and wonder while also acknowledging that some things hurt, and sometimes life is just hard. The book is filled with a balance of both. Gay gave himself permission to find joy all around him and, in return, reminded me to find more in my own daily life. 

The book is a reminder of exactly what I have always loved about writing, the sense of discovery. The joy in uncovering and exploring the beauty and even the anguish inherent in life.

As I work my way through week one of the "Following the Thread" course, I am thinking more and more about the concept of gathering. It fits so perfectly with Gay's work. He gathered the delights around him. 

I love this line from today's instructional notes: "One of the ideas that makes gathering rich for me is that these moments are mine forever and ever, and I honor them by writing about them."

So...

Let's gather.

Think of moments when you were in between childhood and adulthood. Moments when you were learning about who you were.

I was sulking in my room when he came in. I don't know exactly how old I was, but the fact that my room was my brother's old room (the only bedroom on the left side of the hall) tells me that I was at least a tweenager. Based on the sulk, most likely a full-blown teen with all the hormones and attitude that come with that age. 

I don't remember dad traveling much for work, but I remember that he had been out of town for a brief time and had returned this day. He came into my room and gave me a dancing flower that he had picked up for me on his trip. It was a plastic flower in a plastic pot, and when you turned it on, music played and it wiggled and danced. I think the flower was wearing headphones. I don't remember the song that played, but I can see it dancing in my mind.

I didn't let it show in that moment, but I loved that flower. I wish I still had it. I wish that I had told him or, better yet, shown him how much I loved that flower. But the teenager in me was unable to muster more than a simple thank you as I rolled over to face the wall again. Oh, how I wish I had done more.

I love the memory of that flower. 

It brings me joy.

It brings delight.