1. That run you get after a long long stretch of runs fueled mostly by the belief that you can feel strong again—that run that actually feels strong—is worth waiting for. It is better, probably, than those past runs fueled by strength you hadn’t known you could have. Those were good for their newness and wonder, this run is good for its being hard-won, and an answer to hope you'd almost forgotten about.
2. That book you are reading right now, the one that is moving so very slowly but is also so very beautifully written—you have not failed it. You keep coming back, finding the pace and wondering at it. (And how many things in life, anyway, have slid into magic focus when you just found the right tempo, the right rhythm?)
3. That snow that finally came, that stopped time and dampened sound and draped your whole city in heavy clean beauty—some part of you must have been holding its breath waiting for it. You started breathing differently when it came.
You find yourself taking these things personally—the run, the book, the snow. Not that they are exclusively for you, just the fact that they were there, tucked into the edges and seams of a weekend, to be seen and held close—it would be wrong not to accept them as gifts. You imagine, sometimes (often,) that much of Ordinariness is really wonder upon wonder, waiting only for you to notice, to accept it as a declaration of love.
