Ordinary Bliss

Most of what happens in the course of a day simply does not matter. We miss a deadline. Someone misunderstands what we say. We get cut off in traffic by a Hummer when we're in a hurry. We lose a telephone number. We make a gauche remark because we're nervous. We're late, we're late, for a very important date. We aren't invited to a party but our friend is. There's no hot water. The dog digs another hole in the yard. Someone pretends not to see us on the street. We have a flat tire. A printer runs out of ink in the middle of a job. One of our useless possessions breaks. The last carton of yogurt is past its expiration date. Why do we give these things precedence over the color of the sky, the kindness of strangers, the interior world of a peony, the size of our soul? I drive back and forth to work over a soaring bridge with panoramic views of the river with sailboats drifting, their white sails blowing like sheets on the clothesline, shore birds hanging in the air, caught motionless in the tail of a breeze---and I forget to see. The oven self-cleans itself and I forget to be grateful. The morning glory comes back every summer, a surprise zinnia is back for an annual visit, all pink and red. My daughter is all smiles with a ready-hug when I pick her up from her first day in first grade. Fortunately, there is no deadline to miss on ordinary bliss. It never goes flat, there's no expiration date and the party it throws is always in progress. Best of all, there's no invitation required.