ALL THE LITTLE THINGS

Tucked away in the middle of our city is a narrow, battered road riddled with potholes and lined with tangled brush. My daughter and I lovingly call it “Rabbit Road.” Though it’s out of the way and rough on the tires, we choose it every morning on the way to school, just for the chance to spot the life hidden there. Rabbits dart through the undergrowth, squirrels skitter across power lines, crows gather like old men in conversation, and once, we even glimpsed a heron standing statuesque atop a roofline. I sometimes wonder if the residents of Rabbit Road are puzzled by our daily detours. But for us, it’s a small ritual, a quiet, shared joy. A tiny happiness.

Recently, I stumbled upon a tucked-away secondhand shop filled with worn, forgotten books. I’m half-convinced I could move in. The air is thick with the scent of yellowed paper and time, something between dust and memory. I inhale deeply each time I visit. Another tiny happiness.

Just last month, I visited a small, old theater to see a silent film accompanied by live music. The venue barely held thirty people, and the smell, aged wood, metal, a hint of mildew, carried me straight back to childhood, to the days I’d visit my father at work in the Bureau

of Mines. We watched The Monster starring Lon Chaney, and I was struck by its wit, its eerie charm, and the artistry behind it all. Yet another small happiness.

We are often told to chase big dreams, big changes, big feelings. But there is something quietly radical in pausing to notice the small things, moments that ask for nothing more than our attention. A rabbit in the brush. A creaky bookstore. A black-and-white film in a room that smells like the past.

These are the things that root us. That remind us we are alive.