Small Things, In-between

I live in a network of small towns, civic islands scattered among Midwestern cornfield seas. Nothing big happens here. We don’t expect it to either.

In fact, the saying for residents in NYC or LA is “living large.”

Here, we live small. And I’m fine with that. We understand the existence of hard things we cannot change, but we wait, watching for the in-between moments.

Last month I was in a local town when a funeral procession passed down Main Street. On the sidewalks, we stopped, holding our library books or to-go lunches or coffee cups. Across from me, five members of a construction crew removed their hard hats and stood shoulder-to-shoulder. No one spoke.

In cities, pedestrians and traffic would have kept moving toward destinations, studying to-do lists.

Honoring the family and friends of this passed soul was our to-do list.

When we’re at our best, KINDNESS is our watchword.

After that, I waited in a grocery store line. The cashier behind me was someone I knew through conveyor belt conversations. She’d been forced from retirement when her husband died because she couldn’t make ends meet on one Social Security check.

On this day, her customer complained about a slew of things this cashier couldn’t fix. Then she picked on the cashier for being too slow. I dawdled with my money, waiting for the customer to leave. Then I turned around and said, “I’m glad to see you today. I always try to get in your line so we can visit a bit.” She smiled and said, “Oh, honey, thanks. I always enjoy you.”

It doesn’t take much time to offer a drop of kindness.

A neighbor’s husband was in Hospice, nearing the end. Daily she drove and back and forth to be with him. So I placed flowers in a tiny jar Maggie saved for me because she understands my fondness for little objects. I left it on the neighbor’s porch, knowing she’d see it on the way to her car. I let flowers replace words.  

I experience it myself—the exchange of kind things.

In my sewing circle, I thought I’d lost my only needle but found it in the seam of my bag. Search noted. On my next visit, Sue handed me a pack she no longer used.

Upon learning Cliff had been hospitalized for two recent heart attacks, neighbor Marsha gave us several cartons of her frozen soup. She knew I faced editorial and marketing deadlines with little time for cooking.

And kindness lives in my garden. You can call it random, but not in front of me.

Once filled with tall weeds, I’ve worked to restore its soul, with heavy doses of encouragement from garden experts Rob and Beth next door. Now it’s alive with good ideas beyond my scope. I simply have to see them.

Last summer I planted three sweet plants with teensy pink flowers. After winter, one appeared frozen, so I snipped it. By July, it regrew—a microscopic green speck, a Cinderella showing me her potential I’d overlooked.

A lavender butterfly bush, flowering in a blank corner, longed to grow on the other side of the sandstone where the yellow flowers bloomed. There it was, nodding by my toes, somehow finding its way, surprising me.

And the pig, all alone in the sunshine, needed a cool resting place for her head. The kind coneflowers sent a sprout for the occasion. “It’s pig perfect,” I whispered to the leaves. “Thank you.”

I know.

You think I’m making up a story where there is none.

Maybe so.

But I believe I’m living a story, surrounded by good people and plants waiting for their perfect in-between chance.