It was a Sunday morning.
It was one of those Sundays when nothing happened, when nothing was ever supposed to happen, nothing at all.
What could ever happen on Sunday?
Except that the weather people said it would be the last warm weekend of autumn
and the leaves were all shades of red and yellow and yellowish red
and quiet waters of river looked almost perfectly blue.
It was a fine day for taking chances,
and changing plans on a whim.
A day for letting things happen and letting go.
It was a good day for strolling sleepy streets of my town on my own, looking for an open caf;, waiting for a friend, who accepted my sudden invitation for breakfast.
I wasn’t bored, oh no, and I wasn’t in a hurry.
I was enjoying Sunday made for lonely and lovely walks.
I was enjoying the city made of brick and water.
I was enjoying morning full of silence and sunlight.
That morning abounded with shiny cobwebs, turquoise bicycles, hungry squirrels, bouncing labrador dogs and unexpected window reflections, with things so small, so ordinary that they’ve become almost invisible to human eye.
I was looking for evidence: the evidence that magic exists, the evidence that every day, every season is full of wonders. Some are big and some are tiny and often the tiniest are the most wonderful.
I am a firm believer that little things matter. Surely big things make us happy. Weddings, graduations, promotions and birthdays, bar mitzvahs and confirmations, new cars and trips around the world.
But it’s small things that make of us happy people. Delicious tea in a china cup, a handwritten postcard from far away, first summer rainbow, bright winter scarf or a stroll through the sleepy city smelling of water and cinnamon on a Sunday morning when nothing happened.
