A Litany of the Little Things
A Prayer
I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart. I am, I am, I am.
—Sylvia Plath
Enjoy the little things in life, for one day you may look back and realize they were the big things.
—Robert Brault
Behold, I make all things new.
—Revelation 21:5
Above: There are cathedrals everywhere for those with eyes to see.
Happiness, and perhaps holiness, begins when we bow before the ordinary.
Big wonder hides in small things; the commonplace becomes a cathedral when we let it.
If we could recognize the miracle in every humble thing, our lives would be one long genuflect.
The impossibly fresh smell of a newborn.
A tiny ant hoisting a big crumb.
The invisible sorcery of electricity.
The smell of bacon promising breakfast.
Air conditioning’s cool breath on a sweltering day.
A sunflower’s languid curtsy toward the sun.
The gentle clap of stick on ice.
The first sip of morning coffee, hot and hopeful.
Sweater weather and wool’s soft embrace.
Sunlight bursting through stained glass.
A baby’s fingers closing around yours.
Light blinding the horizon above rolling waves.
Hot water falling from a showerhead.
The cool rush after a long, hot sauna.
Home greeting you with its familiar scent.
Laughing so hard that it hurts.
Rain’s first kiss on dry pavement.
Steam curling from hot soup.
The decisive click of a pen.
Fresh sheets drawn tight.
The weight of a sleeping child.
Ice cubes cracking in a cold drink.
The fridge’s midnight hymn.
A dog wagging itself whole.
Windows flung open on spring’s first warm day.
Butter slowly seeping into warm toast.
Pages turning in a beloved book.
Snow silently blanketing the earth.
Shadows waltzing on the wall.
A friend's contagious cackle.
The smoky aroma of a fire.
Breath becoming clouds in winter air.
Water swirling down a drain.
A perfectly ripe piece of fruit.
The gentle heft of a blanket.
An old song making a memory new again.
Coffee percolating in the hush of dawn.
A child's eyes widening with discovery.
Candlelight brightly winking at the dark.
Honey drizzling in golden ribbons.
Rain drumming on an old tin roof.
True luxury hides in the humblest commodities and magnificent nests within the menial.
Every commonplace is a secret sanctuary.
God is good.
Everything is a gift.
And that alone is enough.
Per my about page, White Noise is a work of experimentation. I view it as a sort of thinking aloud, a stress testing of my nascent ideas. Through it, I hope to sharpen my opinions against the whetstone of other people’s feedback, commentary, and input.
If you want to discuss any of the ideas or musings mentioned above or have any books, papers, or links that you think would be interesting to share on a future edition of White Noise, please reach out to me by replying to this email or following me on Twitter X.
With sincere gratitude,
Tom
Reminds me of a great passage from John Senior. The little things matter!
"The immediate (practical purpose of drinking a cup of coffee is to wash the biscuit down. Its proximate (ethical) purpose is the intimate communion of, say, cowboys (they do exist; Will James was right!) standing around the sullen campfire in a drenching rain, water curling off Stetsons, over slickers, splashing on the rowels of spurs, as they draw the bitter liquid down their several throats into the single moral belly of their comradeship. The remote (political) purpose of coffee at the campfire, is the making of Americans—born on the frontier, free, frank, friendly, touchy about honor, despisers of fences, lovers of horses, worshipers of eagles and women.… The ultimate purpose is spiritual. For a boy to drink a can of coffee with cowboys in the rain is, as Odysseus said of Alcinous’s banquet, something like perfection."