Sunday, June 9, 2013

Hey, little man.

“You need to let the little things that would ordinarily bore you suddenly thrill you.” 

-- Andy Warhol

Blueberry stem with a bearded face 6-9-13

 “I still get wildly enthusiastic about little things ... I play with leaves.”
 -- Leo F. Buscaglia

I eat a bowl of berries and almonds every morning -- a breakfast that means I never get a toy surprise in the bottom of the box.
But today -- surprise! -- I found this little twig man attached to a blueberry stem in my bowl.
He is very tiny -- barely a half inch high.
I know this, because I measured him.
He weighs nothing at all.
It could have easily overlooked him.
I might have eaten him.
I almost rinsed him down the disposal with the other stems, twigs and squishy berries.
Luckily, I didn't.

He is so small that I didn't know for sure that he even had a face until I shot a few frames through my macro lens and got a good up-close look at him. And even on my camera's display screen, I couldn't make out any facial details well enough to be certain. But when I viewed the images on my computer, I was frankly amazed at what I saw -- the little man had a distinct, intricate, complete face -- writ incredibly small, yes, but nevertheless complete -- with eyes, lips, a scruffy beard and mustache, even a messy haircut and a personality!

And to think I almost missed it.

Sometimes when I am feeling numbed by discouragement, I get side-swiped by one of life's tiny miracles and it sort of shakes me up -- the universe throws me a gift, like this fragile, yet rugged-looking, little twig man -- and I feel a trickle of wonder, a ripple of hope that my troubles might actually work out some day, and that even if they don't, I'll be OK. Somehow, I'll be OK.

Because some celestial artist carved this delicate little face just for me. Just for this day.

And even though it's just a little thing, in these moments, I sense that the universe, or nature, or God, or Gaia, or whoever is out there, knows better than me precisely when I need a boost, and then drops something intimately specific right in with my breakfast -- like a wee note of encouragement urging me to keep going for just one more day.

And so I will.

Because even though insomnia ravages my nights, making them feel endless and cruel, there is always a tomorrow waiting on the other side.

And who knows what tomorrow might bring?