Little Things

It’s little things that get me. They capture my attention through some seemingly mystical process that eludes my understanding. My eyes always rush past the whole of an object in order to sit a spell with its little parts and pieces.

I ring the doorbell of a mansion but take no notice of its grandiose stature. When my hostess opens the door I’m no longer there. I’ve gone hiking in the hills and valleys of the engraving above the door. Then I slide around the graceful curve of an arch like a skier on perfect snow. Finally, I come to rest in the invisible web of symmetry between opposing columns.

Upon discovering an ancient barn I take no time to celebrate my find. Instead, I immediately lose myself in the play of light and shadow created by its peeling paint. I read volumes of history in its hinges, door latches, and beams. At last I wander the meandering path of a leafy vine as it climbs the ancient facade and disappears in the shadow of the eaves.

Though I walk in my garden each day I never notice the profusion of color or the sheer number of plants. My eyes are always drawn to a single petal of a single bloom. They dart around a scalloped border and then float along its veins. I dive head first into the depth of its saturated color. Only reluctantly do I surface for air.

I’ve never seen the cottonwood tree that lives downwind of me, but I behold its majesty in a tiny seed cradled in fluff. I gently lift the seed and place it upon my palm, as if my closer inspection will reveal the miracle it holds. A mere whisper of a breeze lifts and carries it away and I hunger for the tiny thing as it disappears from view.

Yes, it’s little things that get me and I know they always will. Author Sara Parton spoke for me when she wrote, “There are no little things. Little things are the hinges of the universe.”

Judy Titus is a creative writing participant at SourcePoint’s enrichment center.