It is the little things
The idea of Love is so big and so overwhelming some times:
Where does it come from?
Where does it goes?
Would life be worth living without it?
How can we love a second child, or a third, or a fourth?
It is merely chemicals, like oxytocin and endorphins, in a lovely soupy mix?
While I can ponder the Big Things with the best of them, for me, love is in the little things.
The cup of fresh coffee my husband walks up the stairs to present to me while I sit typing in bed
The mother that holds a wipe, warming it in her hands before a diaper change
Making the bed in the morning so that whenever my husband I walk past, we feel covered and complete
The bounty of an autumn garden
The beautiful braids in a young girl’s hair (and the teenager that carves a pumpkin for a middle-aged midwife’s enjoyment)
The text that comes at just the right moment from just the right sender
Ordering my husband’s dinner sans Brussel sprouts so that he doesn’t have to say “Brussel Sprouts” (even the name leaves a bad taste in his mouth
Ordering Brussel sprouts when out to dinner without my husband (because I love them)
My children forcing me to sit and watch a movie with them when I am at my grouchiest, grumpiest worst self
Mailing an anonymous gift
A stranger’s shoulder supporting your weary head
Lighting a candle with thoughtful attention
Wiping rain off the cat’s fur
Stopping for just a moment and breathing in the crisp autumn air, noticing the reflection of leaf and cloud in the stream’s surface
Yes, for me,
it is the little things.
May all babies be born into loving hands