The little hanging chimes I have, made ouf of beads and seashells, are swaying, and I could sway too because the wind calls the heart to dance. As I look around the room, seeing the mess, I notice tiny lovely things too - the chimes, my grandmother's lace tablecloth, some jasmine I gathered from a hedge while out riding the other night. They are not in an instagram-worthy environment, but on nights like this, when real feels better than any nice photograph, that doesn't matter. They are like small offerings in a chapel. A quiet, ordinary chapel by the sea where prayers come as swept floors, clean sheets, wild jasmine. Where communion is breakfast, moonlight the altar. And every day is sacred.
illustration james r. eads