Today I had hoped to finish several projects, to muscle my way through the day. Only some of that work was accomplished. What mattered most happened in a speck of time and can’t be measured with a ruler.

This afternoon I spread myself too thin—working on a small carpentry project, making a squash and onion casserole, painting a door jam, making blueberry muffins, preparing to wash the back deck, and rearranging the stacks of paperwork on my dining room table. Having my mind on too much at once, I bumped into something on my kitchen counter that bumped into a plastic tub piled high with vegetable scraps for my compost.

The tub took a dive and, onto some of my painting supplies, carpentry tools, and the floor went slivers from the squash, skins from the onion, red apple peelings from breakfast, innards from the green peppers I put on my pizza last night, and avacado skin from the guacamole I’d made the day before.

For a moment, I started to rise up, to let fly a curse word or two. Quick tempered, accustomed to storming and stewing, I stopped. As if a tiny cog in the machinery of my madness had broken. I managed to be still in my mind and quiet in my body, picking up the scraps before the dog discovered the mess.

It was a tiny cog of unknown dimensions, its absence cause for quiet jubilation.

We celebrate what we can.

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