In the good times, I forget.
I forget to appreciate the magenta sunset, the unexpected smile from a stranger, the sweet grassy smell as a father mows his lawn, the crack of a baseball bat lobbing a ball into left field, the taste of a warm tomato fresh from the vine, a light rain at night.
I take the moments for granted until something horrible happens.
And something always does.
Then I grumble and curse and stumble around and flail in the dark and bow down to something grander than my pitiful self and beg and plead and demand for whatever is broken to be fixed. And if I don’t get what I want, I tear off my spiritual cloak. I trample on it and leave it in the gutter and stand in my nakedness and finally come to appreciate that once there was a cloak to warm me, once there was a cloak to enfold me. It was always there, in every moment, in every detail. Something to feel good about.
It’s time to cut new cloth,
and bend down,
and start sewing.