Odd Sensations That I Love

JOURNAL ENTRY #367, June 2026:

When I’m sitting next to my mother—in church or on the bench outside an ice cream shop—and she reaches over to wordlessly tug my dress back over my knee, so I won’t show too much skin. I grin, shake my head, like it annoys me. But really, a warm feeling rushes through me. Because she cares. And I love that she cares.

When I enter a building that is usually full and bustling. Like church—but instead of a busy Sunday morning or Wednesday night, that dull and empty afternoon. When all the pews are empty. When the stage is bare. The lights dim. And even though you know, logically, no room is ever always occupied, you get this prickling sensation. Like you must walk very quietly and pause a beat longer than normal, just to take in this unusual experience. 

When everybody is sad and crying. Like at the dinner after a funeral. Everyone has tear-tracks on their cheeks, and wet tissues in their fist, and red eyes—but then someone says something stupid, something human, and you all start laughing. That feeling. That weirdly comforting knowledge that no matter how dark and terrorizing life becomes, we can still be okay. 

When you know someone so well, and you’re so comfortable, that you speak sometimes and don’t even pay attention if it makes sense. You’re just making noise, and you’re half aware, and they’re half listening—but it’s just fine, nothing matters, because you know each other so intimately that merely existing together is enough. The rest will be forgiven. Or laughed at. 

When someone hugs you, but they don’t pull away after the obligatory half-a-second mark. Those several sweet heartbeats when they hold onto you just a little bit longer and squeeze. The power of human touch.

When someone says, “I prayed for you.” 

When you climb into bed for the night, and your hair is cold and damp and smells like shampoo, and your tired bones melt into the sweet warmth of flannel and quilts.

When you’re scared, or worried, and someone just plain tells you, “It’ll be all right.” Maybe that isn’t true. Who knows? But the words always make me feel better. They actually do.

When you shop around at a dusty antique mall, and find some forgotten treasure, and tote it home, and clean it, and put it in the perfect corner, and angle it every which way—then look at it and dust it and love it, the rest of your life. 

When you all hush together at the start of a meal, bow your heads, and pray. Those wonderful seconds of quiet. Then the clatter of plates and silver utensils and voices, when the prayer is done. That. Whatever that is. 

Maybe there are better things in life. Or bigger things a body ought to notice. But it seems like it’s the little things, like these, that make being alive so nice.