Dear Frank,

You would have enjoyed this morning. Mitzi’s been staying with me some — which I love — and she was in full porch-patrol mode, squinting into the sunlight like a sentry guarding the azaleas. She’s perfected her squirrel-surveillance stance: head held high, chest out, one paw lifted in suspended vigilance, her little stub tail quivering with purpose. From where I stand at the window, curtain pulled back, she looks both absurdly noble and endearingly serious, as though she’s single-handedly protecting Charleston from an uprising of squirrels.

Frank, I can almost hear you muttering, “Classic over-commitment to the cause.” You’d be right. But admit it — a tiny part of you misses the thrill of a good mission.

It’s been one of those productive-but-chaotic mornings when I can’t tell if I’m nesting or training for a triathlon. I’ve moved ladders, washed glass vases, and dodged muddy pawprints — all while refereeing my little sidekick, the porch queen herself, who alternates between basking in the sun and “customizing” the wicker furniture. When she’s not redecorating, she’s digging straight to the center of the Earth, (in typical Boston Terrier fashion) so I keep a towel ready for her paws and a sense of humor for myself.

A little later, after refolding sweaters on the top closet shelf, I paused to measure a painting for framing. It’s satisfying to make something I think is beautiful and then take the next small, deliberate step toward honoring it.

I’ve been messaging with a dear friend in Little Rock — a landscape designer. I asked if she’d give me a few pointers for rethinking my back garden. I prefaced it with a promise that I wouldn’t overuse her generosity.  I’ve helped others as a decorator, and sometimes, “just a little advice” can quietly turn into a full project. Yet, truthfully, I don’t mind that at all. I love helping friends imagine beauty and possibility — it’s second nature to me. I just didn’t want to presume too much on her time or her kindness.

She sent a few ideas — practical ones that made me see the yard differently and I thought how lovely it is when someone offers wisdom freely, without keeping score. It reminded me how energy and kindness circulate best when both sides understand the sweet rhythm of giving and receiving.

Later, while Mitzi stood sentinel outside, paw raised, eyes locked on an innocent lil ol’ squirrel, I found myself thinking about the well-loved celebrity who passed away this week at seventy-nine.  She was admired by so many, including me. More than once I’ve tried one of her fabulous fashion tricks. It startled me for a moment — I’m seventy-four! — but the thought quickly softened. Longevity runs in my family: three aunts and my grandmother all lived deep into their nineties. And my doctor’s steady refrain of “excellent” on each lab report gives me quiet confidence that I’m still firmly in my middle years, not nearing the end.

In the midst of it all, I took on a small, satisfying project — covering a plain white lampshade with a lovely gold-and-cream upholstery-weight fabric I’d tucked away. It’s an unconventional mix, for sure. I used a cool glue gun, attaching just the edges so the fabric would stay loose enough for the light to glow through. The frayed edge of the fabric, the selvage, was pretty, and I liked the soft, natural look, so it was placed at the top. The lamp itself once belonged to Ann, who had it in a lovely corner of her home years ago and later passed it on to me. It has a little brass snuffer attached! The original shade had finally worn out, but now, with its simple new cover, the lamp glows again on my sideboard, atop a runner of embroidered silk that Mother pieced together years ago.

So I keep polishing, planting, organizing, tweaking, and smiling at Mitzi’s exaggerated guard stance. Life feels, at once, ordinary and luscious — full of small rituals that somehow matter: clean glass, framed art, kind friends, good health, and one little sweetheart of a dogger who reminds me daily to stay alert, watch the squirrels, and lift a paw when something interesting (and fun) stirs.

Even the smallest rituals become important in their own way – they stitch the day together, reminding me that beauty and gratitude live in the ordinary.

I love ordinary days, don’t you, Frank?

Love,

Jane