The Little Things

A collection of thoughts from a character I wrote a long time ago. This person speaks of their observations, and then reflects on what they mean to them on a deeper level.

To me, it was the little things that mattered. It was how the place was created, they why, and the where. It was the objects and everyday uses. It was the dresses and the belts. It was the kiss of one to his pet, it was the serenity of quiet trust in a cold night. It was the scrapes of a pen running out of ink. It was the character, the mystery, the creativity and uniqueness behind every little thing. How a path formed into it's surroundings, or how it didn't exist until we formed it.

I saw the dark willows in the night, gripping onto the breeze. I saw the origami clouds slowly folding and changing at their leisure, unstoppable to us all. I saw the maid's old hand, offering a shining coin out from under her shawl with decision. I saw the cracks in the wooden table, unthreatening and welcoming. And the plump glass bottle seated on top of it, the dusty leather book to its left.

A crunching of leaves underfoot, notifying the world someone was treading upon them, in motion, towards something, perhaps anything. There was a snarled river bridge, misted over with the tiny pinpricks of water flakes. It stood silent, inviting any traveler to take their time as they crossed; to enjoy and be smiled upon. The cloak that she was wearing as she went on, dry in some places and damp in others, it clung to her shoulders and protected her head loosely. The faded gray of the said cloak, the worn texture and shade it provided. The tender hands that slid it back.

Yes, the little things mattered the most. Winding intrigue, vast wonder, open possibilities that were fresh as a winter's air. How everything breathed, gave way, bowed, maybe cried out in strength now and then. The intensity and power surrounding us, and how little we notice it. How we give up our ways of wondering at our surroundings to focus on the tiny soul in front of us. To become consumed by circumstance, and all the while nature waits patiently and lovingly for us. That we give up our time, our energy, what we've accumulated, to others and to joy. How we rest in the mystery, how we rest in the knowledge. How we eagerly practice our everyday activities and involve ourselves in our surroundings and our interactions, both with ourselves and with others. How she can stop in the dusty road, bending underneath the hue of gold and pause, just for a moment, to engage in conversation with another. That she is filled with joy and life as she both speaks and listens; I see her smile and her current nonexistence in time.

I hear the waves, undulating and crashing without fear, and without the intent to give fear. I hear the birds sing and communicate, for some unknown reason bringing contentment and hope with each and every short chirp. They sound like bells, tolling from some greater canopy that we were not invited to but are allowed to actively move around in. I hear the breaths and sighs of those who are tired, exhausted from yet another day's work, and how they move about in shuffled patterns, bumping objects and swaying to avoid the next one with great agility.

I note the colors, the tones, the hues. I note how life is simple but yet so not. I note that we all crave something more, and are born to be alive. I note how we exist in such varied patterns, and how we flow and ebb with time and nature. Things are dark but warm, chilled but bright, buttery, soft, smooth, rough. Everything is unique and everything has a purpose. We are hand-carved, as is nature, as is what we make and design.

How we reflected and gave use to what we were given, how we took part in this thing we called life. How our every individual souls were new, fresh, and different. How we broke free from what we know and still embraced it with loving tradition. How our peace wasn't in futile security, but rather in something more. I noticed how we became who and what we were meant to be.

Even the blood, the scars, the strained voices hacking away at the dark night--they struggled against the beauty and kind mystery, giving it a shady overtone and a disturbing, grimy undertone. But they were temporary. They were not in control. And these scares, this blood, these voices--they could cave under the weight of something better. I saw new doors opening, and old ones closing. I saw the interaction, the struggles, the repentance, the overcoming and wills of saved souls. I saw life.

Yes, I saw life. In the little things, I saw a spark, a whisper, of this vague mystery that evaded the human mind but not the human perception. We grasped the tendrils growing from it, but couldn't explain the source. And when we could not find it, it found us. It always did. How a baby was born, it was not us. No, it was a process of something we did not understand. When that whisper entered it's body, no one can say. But it did, and time flows on. And we suck the life out of it because it is infinite and it replenishes. That is grace.

Those are the little things. Just the few I've chosen to share. So when you step under the twinkling snowflakes, bursting in the sun, call them starflakes--as they are not defined by their given definition. They are defined by what they are. Their observable effects, their kind tickling as they grip and melt on that little indent between your nose and cheek. What are the little things that you can love and remember? The little things you wish to show others and take part in? The little things that can point us to God?

Author's Note

How does this piece make you feel? Any suggestions for writing style?