My best friend down in New Orleans once wrote that she could feel the angels crowding her, probably growing up from the cracks in the sidewalk like bastard flowers and whispering close behind like 7th graders sent from Heaven. Now I can feel them too, not only in the garden and the mountains and the alley but also in the stale afternoon room with a “go” and more often, “stay” perched on their holy lips, their presence a reminder that beautiful things lurk wholeheartedly in the most mundane: the tea kettle and cleaning supplies and morning thoughts of not again not today not ready. These are the places they thrive like children running in the playground of my heart. merry-go-round riding and sliding and swinging slowly saying “praise the silence, even the boredom, especially the sadness.” Hold it softly to your body like a newborn baby and say to It All, “Thank you, infinitely.” They ask me, have you been saying this daily, but the moment, in all you do?” and we laugh together in love at how much I have to learn. They hold me closer.