Smell the Narcissus

There are little things, tiny moments of our daily lives, that we often giggle at (or cringe at, depending) and quickly move on, forgetting that they even happened. Some of these things, if we're lucky (or unlucky - remember, maybe we cringed) will come creeping up on us while we're day-dreaming our way through a meeting or cursing at an ever-blinking left turn signal on a two-story tall white suburban idling lamely in front of us while we are stuck in traffic. These tiny bits of years spread out on an ever-increasingly drunken grid hardly ever get the attention they deserve. Moments like the time your friend and her new boyfriend met you and your ferry at the port with fishing poles and a deep-fried shrimp costume are all but forgotten. (Unless, of course you happened to have your digital camera handy.)

There phrases in the English language (as well as the thousands and thousands of other languages living and breathing and walking this earth) that are constantly counseling us to be in less of a rush -- to grip onto the "little things" with both hands, kicking and screaming, and to "well, damn it" quite down and appreciate it all.

We catch ourselves cajoling the rushing man in an ashy grey suit who has one hand constantly rummaging through his briefcase to "stop and smell the roses." We urge the pimple-faced college student buried under three term papers, two part time jobs at a movie theater and research laboratory (respectivly), and one doomed relationship to "take a break." We do all of this, and yet, we don't ever really heed the sayings ourselves. This entry is in honor of doing just that.

Yet another one of the luxuries of living in the rural area that I do, is that I am privy to endless monumental (if not inconsequential) moments. But, because I am only human, and I forget just how awesome every bit of my calm life is. I still seem to rush through the mornings of watching women get dressed in kimono and hearing about the last time they did -- a marriage, a funereal, or their 20th birthday.
I don't really flinch anymore, my heart leaping for joy, when I've been invited to join the seniors for lunch and I watch the soon-to-be police academy attendant ladle miso soup into bowls.

I've even started skipping past dollar stores and their treasure trove of cheap, fake and serenely bizarre items.

And, I almost didn't stop for these beauties because I wanted a longer, more intense ride around my island. (Sorry to those of you whom consider yourself English-saying-traditionalists, we have a short supply of wild roses, but the Narcissus are in great abundance on Ojika.)

Even the docks, sitting still and beautiful at dusk, have slipped past my radar and found a cozy spot in my subconscious. I'm just too busy, or inundated with the compounding moments upon moments of what seems to be nothing extraordinary to realize how out of the ordinary it all is.