Ten Times Before Noon

Ten times a day something happens to me like this, some strengthening throb of amazement.

The throb comes small. Not in big moments. In the third sip of coffee when warmth finally reaches your hands. In the exact second you notice you've stopped clenching your jaw. In the breath that arrives without you summoning it. Mary Oliver knew: amazement is not rare. It lives in the gap between what we expect and what actually arrives. Ten times a day means you could miss nine of them easily. The practice is noticing the one that lands.