Reminders

There is a reminder in your alarm to wake up. Wake up, because the decisions you make now telescope through the rest of the day. Twenty minutes longer in bed now could mean getting to bed an hour later, which makes tomorrow harder. So wake up, wake up now.

There is a reminder in the ache in your back to stretch, roll, bend yourself. Take care of your body; it’s the only one you have.

There is a reminder in the cold wooden floors to put on a jacket before going outside. The frost may not have come yet, but the wind will chill. Put on your wool socks. Put on your hat. Layer. Stay busy to stay warm.

There is a reminder in your phone to open the greenhouse, put the chickens in at night, feed the calf every four hours, because she is hungry, and she is your responsibility. She needs care, and you must give it to her, for at the moment she can get it no other way.

There is a reminder from Dom to keep things clean, keep gates shut, keep an eye out for everything, anything out of the ordinary. Reminders, awareness, these are things you must. There is a reminder when the strange sounds from the truck turn out to be a flat tire that these are things you must notice. Everything means something.

There is a reminder in the sudden emergence onto a magnificent bridge over the Hudson that the world is wonderful. It’s not that we must appreciate it; we are reminded that we are made to appreciate it. There is a reminder to be grateful. In every bite we eat, the drop of honey in yogurt, the flesh of chicken steamed in beer and roasted in woodfire, the slip of dandelion wine down your throat. In the thick blankets on beds and the hot water in sinks. In the moment of meeting a new friend.

There is a reminder in the sawdust of stars that the world is brilliant without us. But we are the ones who witness that brilliance. We are the ones who can feel the dew forming on the grass on our backs. And we are the ones who can hear the wind shake the mighty forest.

There is a reminder that every moment is bizarre and beautiful in how unlikely it was to happen. That a greenhouse would play host to the Jackson Five, Jay-Z, and the Beatles, and so many work boots would dance in the mud they normally cultivate. People everywhere dance awkwardly. But we smile as we dance. And the way your boss cuts a rug reminds you that he too is human. And though he may frustrate you, you probably frustrate him. We must give and take.

Remind me. It reminds me of this. It reminds me of the 14-year-old me selling pizza in the park in October with my cousin. There are so many memories which flit in, and I want to keep them all, but I don’t know how. Remind me, please. I promise to remember. Remind me.