The cabinets were old, but they were his. All three coats of paint were visible if you looked in the valleys and seams of the woodwork. Somewhat random, completely organic, yet somehow intentional.
Winning the lottery changed his life, but it wasn’t the money. It was his outlook. He continued to pursue, but he stopped chasing. He had a casual intensity, an intense freedom.
The object of his pursuit was irrelevant yet he never neglected to pursue.
His life became more purposeful. Purpose in the moment. No waft of nihilism, neither was there a waft of anxiousness. At every moment his purpose was clear yet fluid. One thing always mattered. It caught his attention, captured his focus.
Every task was life.
He continued to work. He allowed himself to become immersed in the importance of the pedestrian. A master craftsman of the cosmically unimportant which brought him joy. He had the honor of thick callouses from years of repetition, allowing him to be effortlessly excellent at the minutiae of his everyday.
At the wave of his attention, trouble took its proper place by shrinking. Not completely gone, but reduced to a toy.
His kids knew he loved them. He built that into his reality. He built that into their reality.
Pain wasn’t crippling. Pain was part of the texture of his Joy. It was the bitterness of coffee and of Scotch.
He lived with time. He lived with spaciousness.
All because he won the lottery. The check is laminated on his wall. The uncashed catalyst of his subtle yet undeniable greatness.
