It's the little things that get me. A wild strawberry wiggling its roots into the lichen-covered ruins of a home, bursting with sweetness promised. A pair of foxgloves growing tall together, standing competitively back-to-back to see who's highest.
My day can rise out of the doldrums at the sight of the first yellow poppy of the season on a familiar walk, at the smell of lemon balm on an unfamiliar one. My little boys laughing at something - one in unaffected joy, little as he is; the other dressing his laugh in all the drama he can muster, to show how big he's getting.
The eldest boy making scrambled eggs for breakfast by himself today, and making extra for his little brother. My husband holding me yesterday, telling me I'm good enough, when I had been secretly feeling I wasn't up to scratch, when I had secretly been feeling alone.
I've always been about the little things in life. The older we get the more we pass them by unnoticed, looking for the Next Big Thing. I like the simple pleasures, the things cynicism turns its back on. I like to keep my child's eyes on.