simple little things

Tonight, one of my good friends asked his wife, (also my good friend,) how many saved voicemails she had in her cell phone.  Apparently, he has only 4 or 5.  At any given moment, I have between 11 and 19.  Right now, I have fifteen.  Each time my Dad, or my husband, or a close friend leaves a voicemail, I save it.  I’ll continue to re-save it until that person leaves another voicemail.  I need to know I have at least one message saved from each person I love. 

After my Mom died last year, it took me a while to recognize all of the things that I lost when I lost her.  There are the obvious things, like not having someone to send a card to on Mother’s Day.  There were the less obvious things, like no longer having someone who would always understand and empathize with the fact that it wasn’t fair that I could still get pimples when I was starting to get wrinkles around my eyes.  And then there’s the things no one can possibly tell you.  Like the fact that no one will ever care as much as she would have how pretty my hair looked on my wedding day.  And the fact that no matter how many photos I had (a lot) or how many pieces of her clothing I wore to work each week (more than reasonable) there were things that were just gone forever.  I don’t have one single recording of Mom’s voice.  Not a single poor-quality video tape of her singing Happy Birthday to me or my brother.  Nothing.  I would give anything to hear her say my name, or ask for a glass of water, or yell at the cat for knocking something over.  No one ever tells you how much value a voice holds, and that there is nothing that will fill the void that it leaves. 

So I save too many voicemails now.  They are my security blanket.  Because if I have them, those people can’t leave me entirely, no matter what.  I will always have a little tiny something to hold onto.   And sometimes a little tiny something can be the thing that keeps you sane.

I am not a runner.  Never have been.  But I started running a few years ago to impress a guy I had just started dating.  That guy is now my husband, and seems to be sufficiently impressed with me, but I still like to run every once in a while anyway, just to prove to myself that I can.  Yesterday, as I was getting ready to leave for the gym around 6am, I stepped out onto the porch.  It was perfect outside.  The air felt exactly the same temperature as my skin.  So I put my things down, grabbed a house key, and went for a run.  I should mention that I’m not a very good runner.  I get winded pretty quickly, and my face gets redder than I can really explain.  Knowing this, deciding to go for a run is never an easy decision – the gym is always a more reliable option.

I ran a zig-zag course through my neighborhood, which I am slowly learning my way around.   A few blocks into my trip, I heard a wild ruckus coming from a big tree up ahead.  As I got closer, I could see two squirrels chasing each other around the trunk of the tree, up and down, faster and faster.  It was like a Looney Tunes episode come to life.  Probably one of the funnier things I’d seen all week. 

I ran for about a half hour, then stopped to walk, thinking it was about time to head back home.  I got to my house, had a drink of water, and realized I had a little something left in me.  So I went back out, and ran some more.  I ran under a beautiful mimosa tree, and was amazed by how much it scented the air around it.  Being all sweaty and gross, a scent like that was pretty awesome.  I ran back the same way I had come the first time, and passed the tree with the squirrels again.  And there they were, still chasing, still fighting for the rights to whose tree it would be, flexing their little squirrel muscles.

I always thought that the reward for making a good or healthy decision would be something big and tangible.  But when I chose to go for a run (challenging,) over going to the gym (predictable,) my reward was the smell of a blossoming tree, and the bragging rights of being the sole witness to hot squirrel fight action. 

In the end, it’s the simple little things that make this life so good.