Rain-washed.

We spend a lot of time talking about how "it's the little things that matter," but I've noticed we spend a lot less time actually living that out. I watch the status messages on Facebook and the steady stream of Tweets bemoaning the lack of this and lamenting the absence of that. I very rarely pat myself on the back, but I do feel that I do a fairly decent job of being more grateful for the blessings I have than focusing on what I don't. Even my "I Want Wednesday" posts are meant to be more about tongue-in-cheek daydreaming than in actively wanting or expecting (though there are some cases in which I do actually plan to save up my "fun money" for a special splurge). But I won't say I that I get it right one hundred percent of the time either. I have my moments...and I feel kind of ugly when I see them in retrospect. It's a constant work-in-progress.

Which is why one of my very favorite things is when I catch myself so immersed in a "little things" moment that I lose track of the rest.

For weeks, now, I have been musing on a particular blog post. (For real. It's been a side note on my Daily To Do List, probably since mid-November, tacked next to "Blog" -- in parentheses, of course, because I fully embrace any possible opportunity to use parentheses. And ellipses. Ahem.) I was waiting for the right time. Which was tricky, because it's the dry season, here in Florida, and I needed it to have rained. And not only to have rained, but to have rained overnight, and to not have dried before my commute. (I don't know why this mattered so much, but...there you have it.)

Last night, it rained. And this morning, as I turned onto the highway on-ramp, I caught sight of the inspiration for this seed of a blog post. It's not something I've ever been able to photograph, mostly because I am driving, and if it isn't safe to text while driving, it's probably even less safe to be operating a camera while behind the wheel. But also, I am not sure I can translate that image accurately with my camera. (Perhaps someone with more skill might be able to, in fact, I am reasonably certain they could. But I don't think I can, and while this might be a red flag for not selling myself short and letting my fears prevent me from accomplishment and all that, let me also say that I'm not sure I would want to anyway. Sometimes an image and the feeling need to simply live in your mind, waiting to be enjoyed "in the moment" when that moment happens again.) I wanted to share it on a morning when it was "true."

Whoa. Tangent.

Back to this morning. I turned the corner onto the ramp, and I saw the sun cresting the horizon. The sky is that perfect blend of pastel Easter hues: soft gold around the sun, followed by layers of peach and rose, fading into pale blue, with just the faintest hint of lavender at the far edge where the sun's rays haven't warmed it yet. There are a few wispy clouds, the final reminder of the rain that has passed through. There is the muted haze of fog, gauzy and light, rising from the damp earth in the distance. And then there is the road. That ugly pavement transforms under the morning light, shimmering fresh with the last of the standing rainfall. There is just *something* about it. The way this glistening rain-washed world looks. The ordinary that I don't see, not to appreciate, most of the time, but that reels me in on a morning like this. My eyes sweep the view my whole trip up the ramp and along the highway until I reach my exit. And then the spell is broken with the change of the angle of the sun, now throwing shadows instead of light.

But it stays with me, brightens me, that image. Something so simple. Something that cannot be purchased or forced into being. Something that I have to wait for, patiently, and that I must be observant in order to receive it.

I love the "little things." Rain-washed mornings. The particular sound of a squirrel crunching through a nutshell. Scrolling through my Google Reader and catching sight of a photo on a blog that causes me to actually catch my breath. Watching the flight of a owl as he moves to a new perch.  Life teaches some harsh lessons at times, but this one has always been my favorite: Open your eyes and take the time to find joy all around you.

When people wonder why I so often appear content, this is the reason. Cross my heart. I am surrounded by wonder and the only cost is the effort I make to really see it and to be grateful.