can't see the wall for the surface of the brick

On the way to work last week.

Seems like I could say something metaphorical here about what my life has been like lately. I think the insanity of my job and the lack of sleep and the worry about money has given me a very shallow depth of field, most of the time. Only seeing bricks, not the whole wall. Only seeing trees, not the figurative forest. Only feeling the bumps, not appreciating the ride. Worse, I keep actually confusing the bumps with the ride, the trees with the forest, the bricks with the wall.

What I'm trying to say is that I keep confusing the parts of my life that are currently difficult for me with what's actually my whole life. I have had a tendency to talk, in the occasional moment, about my life sucking, or about hating my life, even though the sucking thing really only applies to a few things about my life, and even though that second part has never really been true. I hate an hour here, an hour there. Sometimes I hate almost a whole day. But even on those bad, bad days, there is still Annabel's fuzzy head and her quiet chuckles. There is my husband making me dinner and telling me he's proud of me. There is Katie giving me hugs and singing me songs. And sometimes, even, other small acts of kindness which feel more important than you might think they would: there is the man, offering me his seat on the el, for no reason that I can tell other than because maybe he looks at my face and thinks I look tired. There is the co-worker, telling me, "Don't ever let anybody tell you that you can't write." (For the whole rest of the day, I felt grateful.)