I started during lockdown. I was isolated in the biggest city in the world-almost. Yes, my family was around me but I felt alone alone alone—like the American homesteaders who lived 10 miles by buggy from the nearest neighbor. I could look out my door to see the long expanse of sky and land. And the shut houses of all my neighbors

I could see so far and there was no one to talk to. We were separated from each other by fears and regulations.

I stood at my porch withal those scary feelings.

For the first time realized the house faced the sunrise. I could see the sunrise like those prairie pioneers. I joined those hardworking courageous people in something better than isolation.

I began to take a photo of the sunrise with my phone from my porch each morning. How many days to start a habit? Or to flip it, how many days does a habit continue?

The lockdown is over but my pictures are still going.

I learned to frame the shot. As time passed, changes came. I trimmed my tree to keep it out of the skyline.

Framing the sky, I notice things.

The tilt of the earth over seasons.
Where to expect the sun to peek in December.
Where to find it in June.

Tomorrow is the thanksgiving holiday. Everyone knows that we are taking this moment to be grateful.

It’s a frame. During the hard times of the lockdown, I framed my fear and isolation into a story that gave me a hero tribe.

Everything was still there, but it changed what I looked at. I could l see the things that brought joy and pass over the ones the dreadful parts.

I could think of it like some IKEA furniture, I’m going look for the pieces that are supposed to make that picture a reality. At some point I will be sure I am missing an indispensable piece and I will start to despair. When I get to the end I will discover I had everything and I still have extra to add intrigue

With the frame of thankfulness, I won’t despair in seeking. I can face the prospect and find what I need to create what I’m hoping for.

As the littlest, it was my job to set the table. Since we never had matching dishes or silverware. I put a lot of thought into the choices for each place setting. The plates were mostly basic Corel ware, white with a blue or beige decorative circle mainly.

But the silverware grabbed my attention. Some of the utensils were undecorated, flat sliver top to bottom. Some had lines on the handle, lending an elegance like a stalk of grass to the presentation.

But my favorite were the handles with flowers. A fat puffed up knife handle with knobby flower embellishments, and sometimes a scrolled leaf or bud climbing the stem—these required contemplation and investigation. Should that elaborate spoon be placed next to the plain knife? The fork was all the way on the other side of the plate allowing for a new visual statement.

First pass to set the table was from my gut, making choices for each setting. The plate and its attributes was the center of my choice for cutlery and I made the decision based on who was sitting at that spot. What would best please and suit by father? My mother was a puzzle too.

I would reach the end, and as I added the cups I’d have a chance to consider my selections. Was I fair? Did one person get too many of the most beautiful silverware? I might take a fork and change it out with the one at another setting.

Once, my mother showed me some pieces of silverware she’d inherited from her family. These serving spoons had one set of extruding blossoms on the top side. When turned over, a completely different flower design was visible. I marveled over these special occasion pieces. What gorgeousity, two designs!

Dinner happened every day. Years were spent making these value judgements of which person should have what ration of beauty at the meal.

I cherished the sight, the feel and the expression of each.

I rationed for myself too. had the power, I could have hoarded the most beautiful pieces for myself. No! Don’t be greedy! I would work so that I had the right amount of the pretty ones.

I’m not little anymore, and I look back and realize my family did not love those pieces like I did.

I remember them to this day. If I could, I would go tell myself to hoard the best pieces. I loved them, and I appreciated them like no one else did.

If I see the beauty in something and love it, that is a particular right of ownership. The choice that pulls at me, draws my eye and thrums my heart demands attention. It’s worth securing.

We all got to take an hour of time out of savings this weekend.

I suppose I am putting it to use and I’m happy to wake up more rested. But when I try to redeem that hour to increase it, the bar is very high.

Across the table from me—sitting one seat over in the truck—my girl is using every minute on the hardest schoolwork she can find to chase down her goals. Not a single complaint as she works and reworks the physics problems that want to defeat her.

She has the high school experience that I never did, and she’s chasing it down like she has a machete in her teeth.

I’m support staff, not competition. And yet I feel shame that I pursue my goals with a fraction of her intensity.

Last Friday, SpaceX launched the SpaceX Falcon 9 rocket from Vandenberg Space force base. It went up during the day, otherwise I could have seen it from my yard. The burn it takes to reach velocity to leave the planet’s atmosphere lights the sky for more than a hundred miles.

My daughter knows the score, and is pushing as hard as she can at this start of her launch. She’s been at it for longer than I remember. It’s been a while since I cheered to see her walk across the room independently.

She wrestles with physics and I am relieved I don’t have to learn it. On the ride to school I tell her about how I struggled with statistics in college and was so relieved with the C on my transcript.

She likes the story.

I drive back home, coasting downhill. There are things I have to do today, and still I could coast past most of them. It would matter. Who would know?

The atmosphere of my personal launch is behind me. I can remember it.

And I’ve done big things since.

I said it, I’m coasting. I made the effort to achieve momentum. I could do it again.

Seeing my child gather herself together for one of her very first lift off is nostalgic and a re-run

Am I ready to bite the machete again? Maybe I can put it in the holder and check out the map first. I’ll get moving with a little more preparation.

NOTE: last week’s offering inspired a few reponses. Thank you! I love to hear from my readers.