Even before Marie Kondo taught us how to tidy, if something I owned didn’t spark joy, I ditched it with cold-hearted vigor. Even sentimental items. Even adorable items.
 
A red coat with giant silver grommets on its side pockets that my mom chose for me just before she died. Gone. A pair of two-tone tap-like shoes secured with grosgrain ribbons. Gone. And, I rarely pine for any of the rejects. 
 
But one category defies my routine molts: Scarves.
 
Silk. Rayon. Pashmina. Fringed. Oblong. Infinity. They are all immune. When on a cleaning rampage, I don’t even open the scarf drawer to disrupt that shrewd nest of accessories.
 
My scarf drawer is the place I start when closet inspiration fails. It’s a place I turn a pleasant-enough outfit into enchanting. Even those squares of challis which festooned my ponytails 30 years ago make delightful head wraps. With all the cool dividers available, now one glance settles any fashion conflict.
 
And, honestly, the feast of color in my scarf drawer is a pleasure all onto itself.

If I wake early enough with a few minutes to spare and I’m mindful of my amazing view, I capture the colors of dawn. The sky. The lake. Their light. Not one picture looks the same. Boring, my life will never be.

Stunning beauty radiated in the stands at the Green Bay Packers football game last weekend. I couldn’t help staring and wondering why EVERY person looked gorgeous – young and old, men and women. It was because all of us were blanketed in scarves and caps with only our eyes showing. No perfect white teeth,  no buoyant shiny hair to distract. Just eyes. In the spotlight of their blinking, sparkling, vigilant pools of splendor.   
 

Recently I dreamed of an infant girl, who called someone else her mother but actually was mine and who gushed diarrhea when I held her. I think that baby was me, instructing me to own my slimy shit.
Studies of a Seated Female, Child's Head, and Three Studies of a Baby, c. 1507–8 Raphael (Italian, 1483-1520) The Cleveland Museum of Art

The US Postal Service returned this package to me not because of insufficient postage or shoddy wrapping. It was returned because it represented a heightened security concern. Apparently, one sign of terrorism is a row of forever stamps on a package weighing more than 13 ounces.
 
It made me think of all the people who protect us. Stealthily. Not just our Armed Forces or FBI or CIA or local law enforcement. The US Postal Service protects us, too. I love that.
 
And, because I forgot to enclose something in this package, the US Postal Service saved me from myself and gave me the chance at a do-over with no one the wiser.