Up early, pre-dawn lit by a generous moon, thinking of the last few months, which have been long, and emotional, and full of beauty.
Sometimes in my work, I incorporate this idea that regardless of where we are, we can find small things to bring a moment of levity or joy, or serve as a reminder that the world has more in it than what we’re experiencing in real time. It’s not a Pollyanna thing – I’m not trying to sugarcoat or minimize discomfort, pain, or grief – but rather something that can help us remember that there are other things happening at the same time as the ache we feel, that perhaps we are steeped in.
The best explanation of this that I’ve come across is in the work of Dr. MaryCatherine McDonald, who has coined these as “Tiny Little Joys.” In one of her books, she talks about an experience of seeing a rainbow on the floor next to her, borne from a nearby prism, in a moment of deep and active grief. It didn’t make things better – her grief was real, and it was present, and it was unavoidable – but it whispered to her that there were other things happening too. It whispered something along the lines of, I’m here when you’re ready for me.
The first several months of 2026 have been, for many people I know, extremely challenging. Maybe it’s because the whole world is off; there is a lot of grief everywhere. But that’s always true, I suppose, though it seems like the energy is different right now. I know how Northern California this probably sounds – my many years here have admittedly come to influence my perspective and my person – but it also seems true to me. I have friends who have lost people, who have learned of serious diagnoses; who have been navigating financial hardship, who have been moving through the rocky waters of changing relationships. Not everything has a tidy conclusion, or an end point. Some things have to be endured.
Still, outside, the generous moon. Still, outside, a rooster crowing. Still, inside, a ticking clock and an Americano.
I keep hoping that this energy will shift. I wonder what that would take. What it would be, to return to times of togetherness and hope. Shared joy, trust, support. Some things have to be endured, I know. Some things have to be incorporated, and some things forever change us and our lives; the things we’d wanted once for our future can no longer happen. That’s inevitably a part of life for all of us.
I suspect that the way forward is to perhaps be bold in offering our open hands to other people. To find our own tiny little joys, and say, oh yes. There you are. I see you now. I’m hurting, but maybe, someday, you’ll still be there when I’m ready for you.
The sounds outside are becoming more morning-like: cars, a barking dog. It’s time for me to do my workout. The tide is low today and perhaps the ocean is in my future. I am sending my hope to you.
The Wandering Introvert 