LOVING A LISTICLE

2007: the year the word listicle started appearing.  Not that lists haven't been around forever:   Homer lists every captain involved in the Trojan war and a Catalogue of Ships of the Achaean army.  The Beatitudes are promises of blessings for the meek, the poor, the righteous, the merciful, the peacemakers; many of us try to live according to the Ten Commandments; and we (at least I) skip the genealogies listed in the Bible. 

As school children we all learned by lists.  They are finite.  This can be a comfort. But listicles are a bit different.  A nice combination of list and article in what some have called a snackable size.  Befitting something, for the most part, casual.  

The ones I like are inspirational. I was given a workbook of list-prompts.  One is "List the Reasons Why You Should Feel Proud of Yourself."  Isn't that affirming?  I wish I could list, "I've gotten better at keeping promises to myself," but for now that's something to work on.  What I love is the thought behind an interesting listicle, how you can see that the writer felt a sense of accomplishment thinking of each item. Plus how getting to know a writer, even a bit, is always really a way of getting to know yourself. 

So here's my short listicle of things I'm loving as these hot days of August creep along.

. . . the way the Canadian geese sound as they squawk back and forth across the evening sky.  They have no sense of camouflage or survival and yet there is never any shortage of geese.

. . . that all I have to do is listen to my intuition to know what's true.   Our intuition is our friend and to deny it is to take the long way 'round.

. . . when someone compliments me, often a stranger.  Or when I do the same and a conversation starts up, two women finding a transient connection that pauses an ordinary moment.  Women are good at this and it's lovely for children to witness.

. . . when a downpour cools the asphalt and awakens the trees.  The car hoods steam and water pools.  For awhile the humidity shifts, a breeze takes hold and we notice the change in the day.

. . . doing yoga in my 1977 mid-century modern home.  Doing most anything by an open window if the temperature allows:  reading, watching the birds, looking for the chipmunk family, working.

. . . the smell of wild mint and orange lantana.  The fragrance of almond or lavender or vanilla.  The smell of peach camomile tea with honey and how it tastes in a bone china cup.  The feel of fresh sheets, bleached clothes, clean hair, warm skin, shea butter sunscreen, my dog Mr. Wiggles after his shampoo and conditioner, and how good they smell. 

. . . whatever opens our senses: to feel, to taste, to touch, to be enfolded, to snuggle, to envelop, hug, love and then fall asleep. A fine day and night.