One thing I’ve learned about grief: that it grows the heart, sometimes wrenching it open, sometimes with the gentlest touch. I met a man yesterday who told me that his wife had died several years ago after struggling with breast cancer. Before she died, when she was still resilient and strong, she began to run. Every morning, 5 miles. He decided to run with her. It was a way they could celebrate life and strength and health, for a while. Now that she’s gone, he’s continued to run. And he’s begun to see the world in a different way. Each small thing is a gift. He fills pockets full of treats when he runs, and gives them to dogs he meets along his route. He’s the cookie man; all the dogs are so happy to see him. It’s a little thing, but it brings him joy. It brings them all joy – the dog owners, the pups, the man himself.

I’m in love with my mornings, too. Every day is filled with beauty and surprises. Ibis flickering up from the pond as Bodi and I pass by; the dewy violets, blooming so thick in the lawn; orange sun up through the batture woods; the river pushing at its banks; a red winged blackbird singing nearby.

There’s something about the deep wound of loss that pierces through the sameness of our everyday vision, and teaches us what’s real. We learn how love expands; how we are linked to every living thing; how our whole life encloses and holds dear the vulnerable, the lost, the delicate, the simplest things – a knot of family, a single tree, a wounded dog, a ragged and precious place. What else could we possibly be but little love rooms, wrapping our gauzy arms around the world?