At my little Louisiana home earlier this year, another small letter to my Aunt Min came spilling out. Lately I don’t write to her much, though she is still part of the fabric of my life. But sometimes, I’ll be in the middle of a journal entry and suddenly realize I am writing to her, spilling something out as if we were together again. There are so many things I think of, so many ways I love the world as she did. We were both constantly being broken open by the beauty and wonder of this life.

The following is a little entry that ended up being a letter to my aunt:

4/20 a.m.
A good and long walk on the levee this morning, then checking out newly-planted fruit trees in the back field. I’m sure they’ll do fine, but everything grows best in the light of a little love and attention. Nearby, the usual birds flit overhead, buffeted by a strong wind. Ibis, egrets, yellow-crowned night herons, little blue herons, red-shouldered hawks – they are all beautiful under the brightening sky.

And suddenly, I am missing you, Little One. Walking on your home ground, past the hidden river-sodden woods where growth is so lush – new blackberry flowers appearing since the flood waters have receded – wild onions still flowering and starting to seed – yellow dock in bloom – the first loquat flowers – the shining river in early sun.

I think about all the love I poured out – into plants, this space, the birds, the little everyday maintenance tasks that anchor a life. You did that too, in your own small ways, for over a hundred years.

Back at the house, small birds perch on cushions and chat at the feeder. I wonder who else will care about them when I’m gone. I guess the grass, the wildflowers, the birds, don’t really care who cares, or not. They practice a neutral, unattached love. But I think somehow they know, and appreciate, those of us who open our hearts – love even the tiniest wondrous things of a life – all those little flickers of splendor. And so I have.