little things

Sometimes I just get lost in a song.

I feel the music in my toes, and let it tingle up my legs. The lyrics climb up my spine and dance around my shoulders, and then they make their way all the way through my arms to my fingertips. The music drapes over me like a blanket and covers and fills all the holes and broken places I've come to know so well. And for three glorious minutes, my world is whole. And everything good and decent and wonderful is dropped in my lap. And my whole world is perfect.

Sometimes I just get lost in a sunset.

When the sky is gold and the clouds are pink, and my backyard looks like it could go on forever behind that broken down fence. There's a moment. Just before the sun disappears behind the vineyards, the sky is dark blue now and I can barely see the clouds. A breeze passes over the central valley, and I breathe with the trees. Collectively we breathe and shiver in the nightfall's first sigh. I close my eyes for just a moment, and I breathe until the darkness takes over and I'm forced to retreat into the warmth and quiet of my home.

Sometimes I just get lost in a car ride.

I roll down the windows to let the wind come in and whip around my face. I feel the cool air through my scalp and down my back. And if I turn up the radio I feel like I'm somewhere else. I'm standing on top of the sierras and I'm looking down at the forest with my headphones in. I'm listening to Anna Nalick and I've never been anywhere more beautiful. I'm not driving down California Avenue; I'm on top of the Sierras.

Sometimes I just get lost in a moment.

A Christmas morning, or a birthday wish, or my best friend's laugh. Sometimes I lose myself in tiny things. Somehow, they matter most.

Sometimes I just get lost.