Every day

Sometimes she played this game:

She tried to see how many different ways she could see the same thing every day and still love it all over again each time. For she believed that it was the infinite variety of a thing–a person, an object–contained within its constancy that gave it a richness and beauty worth savoring.

She felt this way about a handful of things: The light. Water. Trees. Her children. A few select friends.

She tried to feel it about herself too. But that was more difficult. That was a game she had to keep playing again and again with patient endurance.

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