It’s the little things. The series of moments woven into one full day, one month, one year, one whole miraculous lifetime.
The aroma of coffee, pungent first smell of the day.
The window just visible above the door of my shower stall and the puff of clouds rolling by.
Empty yogurt container doubling as a holder for leftover homemade simple but delicious soup: broth, bits of chicken, and chunks of organic veggies.
A good song on the radio just as The road bends to that beautiful mountain view.
My child laughing at the restaurant sign being flipped to “closed” just as we approached the door.
The drama of color at sunrise.
All of us belting out country music as we sail through rural America.
The subtle shift in weather and temperature as we travel westward and the subtle change in landscape to go along with it: familiar highway rest stops make way to open, flat prairies; straight pink roads make way to the occasional swell of hill and then bumpy green mounds; and the unthinkable Badlands make way to forested mountains and winding roads.
The gentle shaking of the camper as my growing sons roll over in their bunks in the dark quiet of night.
The clear, sweet song of a meadow lark hopping in impossibly green grass.
The quiet blip of my son’s bait breaking the surface of the water as he fly fishes in a mirrored lake.
The warmth of an early fall sun on my forearms as I bike a trail through the colorful South Dakota landscape.
The expansive room in my mind for fresh thoughts and the electric charge of awakened senses.
The warm humor of an elderly stranger in a strange town who slices up extra fudge for our children just because he misses his grandkids.
A deep sleep after long hours of driving.
A warm hat on a crisp night, the crackling flames of an orange campfire, and the sky–bigger than I’ve ever seen it–expanding in all directions and filling my eyes with stars.