After working seven hours in a nonmetaphorical fever, I stopped in at the grocery for a few last minute hurricane supplies. (I mostly mean wine for Josh.) I carried them in through the cold rain, my shivery heart leaden not so much with lamentations as grim acceptance. Since the backdoor was locked and I don't have a key for it, despite my landlord's most ardent promises four Junes ago, I cut down through our side alley, stepping through a deep puddle which perfectly drenched my feet. The gutter over the side has been broken since the snowstorm three winters back, so it poured a steady stream of water down my neck as I tried in vain to shield my parcels. Finally, I got to the front door, unlocked it, and came up the stairs, soaking wet. The first thing that met my sight: the bathroom, which has been under landlord-construction for over a month, was still quite shittily unfinished. I found the likewise-effected closet/dining room in a similar state. Coughing in fury, I called my landlord for the fourth time this week. My phone smashed between my shoulder and my wet face, I wandered around the devastation of my home, feebly reminding him of the various things that were undone whilst I helplessly shoved at the clutter that I could still not put away. Receiving no straight answer and losing my civility, I hung up and headed back out into the rain via backdoor to carry in the remaining groceries.


But my backyard was completely transformed. In the brief time I'd been inside, about 50-100 migratory robins had blown in. Every conceivable space was brimming with chattering, dipping, flapping birds. They didn't even mind me. I just stood there and watched them.

I know it's stupid and doesn't mean anything. In my life, I collect and value this great girth of sentimental bullshit. I assign significance to moments--natural or interpersonal--and hold them tightly and count on them like my own small fortifying army. I think that a lot of the times, people are too kind to call me out for what am I, which is a fool. I've felt so grim and alone the last weeks. But the birds did remind me, if nothing else, this world is one of true magic and beauty, and God, I love it. I don't care. It was something of a lonely miracle, and it didn't make all of the things that worry me today or this week or the last year go away. But it did make me know this: I never want to stop appreciating all of the small, wonderful blessings that constantly surround and support me.