Where do I find joy in simple things?

They are all around me,
the simple things . . .
a lone pale blush of a rose
blooming on a bush full of briars
right by my kitchen window,
the tiny black and white insect on the screen,
shaped like a miniature missile
with orange spots intermingled.

Pencils that write,
windchimes that sing,
a pillow under my head,
the grass beneath my feet . . .
all to be enjoyed.

My mother was good with small joys and simple things . . .
she showed me
how to notice the things under my feet,
the surprises out of the way
and off the beaten paths.
She’s the one who got me on my knees
looking for hermit crabs and sea anemones in tide pools . . .
set up a drying rack in the kitchen as a perch
for a baby robin I’d found trembling in a pile of dead leaves.
She bought baby food,
helped me feed it with chopsticks made of wooden toothpicks
until I could do it myself,
and when it was time,
took me outside with the bird in my hands
to send it back up to the sky.

My mother took me to the foothills of the Rockies,
and together,
with rock hammers,
we dug into the soil and stones
and discovered perfect clam shaped fossils
of shells
from millennia ago.
It gave me more joy
than digging up a diamond ring.

Simple things,
indeed.

Now,
of course,
she is gone,
but her passion has stayed with me,
and been a gift for which
I will always be grateful. ♥