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Good morning.

I wonder what was the first beautiful thing you saw this morning? Did you see it? Catch it in the act of being itself? Did you share it with someone you love, or tuck it in your pocket to save for later?

Something beautiful is seeing another day with hands to give and receive. Your baby’s smile. Your silky dog waiting patiently by her bowl for supper. Your engagement diamond that flashed in the sun as you walked to your car heading out for work. That song on the radio that makes you smile. (You do still smile, don’t you?)  Was it a breakfast sandwich your co-worker gave you, unasked for? Was it that first sip of coffee so hot and full of olfactory glory? What was the first beautiful thing you received this morning, took note of, and said thank you for? I hope you will share it aloud with someone.

I want to ask you that question the next time we meet. I hope you have the answer on the tip of your tongue, something to help me get to know the rest of your heart. I hope your response will loosen and blow away the mocking parts you’ve shown that I don’t want to remember.

It’s no wonder I prefer to remain unpopulated (reserved introverted anniesocial hermit-like don’t call me I’ll call you.) Sometimes it’s hard to shake off the griping and sniping and complaining, the fear that no one out there has anything kind to say to the ones they love, their friends, their neighbors. If I crawl inside any tighter I shall implode. But then I remember I saw something beautiful this morning, and that’s what I’d rather share: the beach is still there. Flat and clean. I watched solitary crabs digging from their burrows, thrusting and flinging damp sand behind. Nature is good. The earth is good. The people are good, too. We just need to dig out of our holes.