Imperfectly Perfect

We have a few pine trees. Not a forest. Not a dramatic, postcard-worthy grove. Just enough trees to remind us that the wind has opinions. These trees make pine cones the way some people make opinions. Generously. Constantly. Without being asked.

Jolie thinks this is excellent planning on nature’s part.

She plays with pine cones the way professional athletes play with equipment. Serious focus. Whole body commitment. She punts them across the yard, chases them like they have personally offended her, then carries two or three at once, cheeks full, looking like a very determined squirrel with a mission. When she was teething, she crunched them with tiny, furious dedication. I am still impressed she never eats them. She just gives them a good, thorough interrogation.

Dogs, as it turns out, have social calendars. They do not enjoy being left alone. On days when I was busy, Jolie would take her emotional needs to Terry. They wrestled, tumbled, negotiated imaginary victories. Then came the kisses. So many kisses. Wet, joyful, unstoppable kisses. Terry accepted them like a man who had made peace with his fate.

Every now and then, Jolie remembered me.

She would trot outside, select a pine cone with care, and bring it back to me. She dropped it at my feet, sat down, and waited for acknowledgment. A gift. A small, earnest offering from the yard. Over time, the pile grew. Not because I asked. Because she decided. At some point, the scattered cones leaned into one another and formed a heart shape. Each cone carried little bite marks, evidence of joy and good intentions. Each one is scuffed, chewed, uneven. And together, they make something whole.

It is strange how love gathers itself.

Quietly.
Patiently.
Without instruction.

Jolie does not know she made a symbol. She only knows that when she brings me something, my face softens. My voice changes. I say thank you. And she feels the warm return of being seen.

Shall we pay closer attention to the small offerings around us. The ones left at our feet by those who love us in their own bright, uncomplicated ways.

Sometimes, the heart is not made of grand gestures.
It is the kind of heart you do not plan.
It forms when you are busy living.

It's the perfect heart.