This weekend I knitted inside as I watched the snow fall outside. Of course, this being North Carolina, the snow didn’t stick to the ground, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t gorgeous.

Today I finally tackled the bookshelf that has been mocking me for almost two weeks. In a fit of impatient determination, I ignored the directions and hammered away. The result is a really crooked bookshelf that rivals the stairs to my grandmother’s attic in sturdiness. I fear that both could collapse at any moment, but am trying to remind myself that living on the edge is what makes life living… right?

Ineptitude aside, I am bolstered by the fact that I was mindful of both the snow and the bookshelf tinkering, instead of going about life as I all too often do, completely confused about what happened when as it continues to plow by me.

I have been taking photographs (almost) everyday since my 30th birthday in July, and am delighting in the visual reminder the pictures have given me. Instead of words which can get jumbled and perhaps sound the same, the photographs continue to take me back to a point in each day that set it aside from all the others.

And in glancing through them, I am reminded that as long as I dare to pay attention, even the days that seem the same and mundane are chances to see through new eyes.