“Focus on small things like making tea. Be grateful and break things down to the tiniest piece until you can find good.”

That was my response when my youngest, distraught by news and the world, asked me the point of life. Not an easy question at any age, but she wanted to know how I don’t just stay in bed. How I care about anything under the overwhelming cascade of news and media— all of which, save the occasional trite story, is horrendous.

“Do you think the people in Ukraine care about making tea?” she asked, sure she’d caught me in my privilege.

“I do. Maybe not tea. Maybe it’s coffee or their windowsill or the smell of fresh bread. Whatever is smallest in their life is what gets them up in the morning and through this time.”

A couple more hours of rigorous debate followed. My youngest is all about discussion and proving her point. I remember being full of myself that way, and I’m patient. Mostly.

I am still twirling our discussion around in my head this morning and hoping some of it slipped past her apparent despair.

The world is a wide lens right now, as it should be, but it is easy to get lost in the enormity. Easy to forget that amid the headlines and movements are people.

I know a bit of being a person, and if my world were falling around me, what is on my shelves or the vast issues facing my country would not be what got me through.

Tea. A splash of clean, warm water on my face. Early morning quiet. Those would be my talismans through the nightmare. There are huge issues, most of which the average person has no control over, but we are all the same species of human, and most of us have small wants.

So, whether I’m at my desk or a citizen of the next country thrown into chaos, I move in the direction, or the memory, of the smallest pleasures. The fleeting joys that make a life. They are the point.

My thoughts from the laundry room. Until Tomorrow.

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