We all start small.

Recent encounters with the youngest among us have reminded me of how much we have to learn, to figure out, and … accept as we grow.

Children are miraculous sponges, absorbing, taking the world in -- and storing it all for future reference.

While waiting in line at a department store the other day, I noticed a little girl standing at the counter with her father. As her dad and the cashier went through the everyday motions of a sale, the little one stood transfixed. She observed every part of the transaction intently: handing over the clothes, scanning, swiping, typing, bagging -- done! 

Lesson in the marketplace complete.

That intensity of focus is impressive.

I saw another example of it this week, while walking our dog, Louie, past a neighborhood park where a mom and two little girls were playing. When the toddler of the two spotted Lou, she headed straight for the fence between us. Eyes laser-focused on the dog, she pointed (in a way that suggested the gesture was fairly newly learned), and said quietly, "Woof, woof."

"Ah, you speak his language," I said.

"Yes, she's fluent," her proud mom replied.

Lesson in communication complete.

Alas, in life, some lessons are harder learned.

At the library where I work, we offer several story times, including one for the under-2 set.

Story times are reliably upbeat and positive. One memorable session, however, reminded me of "existential story time," a running joke I share with a friend whose sense of humor also veers to the dark side.

        Think Mr. Rogers with angst.

  After listening to stories and moving to music, one little girl simply could not accept the concept of having to give back the bead-filled plastic egg she'd been given to shake along with the song.

"I want my egg," she said. "Mommy, I want my egg."

She repeated her plea, over and over again. Maternal explanations did not compute.

She began to wail, and her patient mom carried her outside. I could still hear her beyond the door: "I want my egg," her voice ranging from small and plaintive to loud and adamant, trying to find the right tone that would bring back her egg.

  They came back in.

The librarian said, "Ok, everybody. Pick out a book to read with your mommy."

Silence.

"I want my egg."

Sigh. Egg-istential lesson, not quite complete.

My reward for walking after dark:

Low-slung sliver of moon,

Bright smile lingering in the night.

Remnants of snow, with a side of spring.

As kids, we understood the joy of snow.

As grownups, we too often see snow as a burden, something to be removed, shoved aside, and avoided.

Last night, I took a walk in the snow, and remembered the joy.

The flakes were just beginning to fall as I headed up the hill for the Ash Wednesday service at our church. By the time I headed back home, snow had muffled the parking lot. While others began the chore of sweeping off their cars, I simply walked off into the snow globe.

At the top of the hill I stopped near a street lamp, just to watch. The flakes caught the light and rode the wind, swirling by the thousands.

I walked on and listened. Snowflakes are so small, it seems impossible that one could make a sound, but together, they make a soft, whispery chorus. 

In the distance, a passing train added a wistful chord.

Now and then a car passed and kind drivers asked if I wanted a ride home. 

"No, thank you. I'm good," I said.

I didn't have miles to go before I slept, just a few more blocks. But I'm glad I traveled by foot, and stopped, on that snowy evening.

----

A few months ago I joined the choir at church, quite a brain-expanding experience. Our choir director recently brought in some poetry recordings for us to listen to, including Robert Frost reading "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening." 

It's clear I was inspired.

Let there be light.

They say God spoke those words at the dawn of time, and ever since the first fires cast shadows on cave walls, we humans have looked for ways to banish the dark.

Darkness can be hard to handle, whether it's the long nights of winter or the murky depths of sorrow.

It's no wonder we include light in our winter celebrations. We light candles during Hanukkah, swoop strands of lights at Christmas, shoot fireworks as the New Year begins.

I was happy to turn the page to 2013, leaving behind a year of too many goodbyes, beginning with the death of my father in January. Loss is part of life, I know, and the losses of 2012 hit hard, but they also reminded me of how blessed I am, to be here, and to have loved -- and still love -- those who are gone.

That's the light I hold onto amid the darkness.

On New Year's Eve Eve, my husband and I went out to dinner with two dear friends (a more than momentary joy). Afterward we drove around the neighborhood in search of noteworthy Christmas light displays. My favorite was a free-form creation: five strands of icicle lights, streaming down from a treetop some 30 feet high. A light wind set the strands a'swaying.

From that simple setting we headed to a house in Glenside, whose owners take a decidedly different approach to holiday lighting. Their glow is visible blocks away, and features Santa, reindeer, polar bears, a seal balancing a ball on its nose, candy canes and a chugging train. All in rainbow lights, some of them flashing. I may even have seen a unicorn.

As one of our friends put it: "Pleasantly over-the-top." 

 House by house, those lights will soon disappear. In honor of my roots, I keep ours up until at least Ukrainian Christmas (which happens to be today) and usually beyond. I feel wistful as the lights go, leaving nights a little darker. Fortunately the sun is already giving us help, setting a bit later each day, offering a glimmer of the seasonal shift ahead.

I hold onto that light, too.

It seems I am a creature of hope.

Read the pages of any newspaper and it can be easy to lose hope, easy to think that this world will never change. Newtown. Aurora. Afghanistan. Syria. The heart of darkness beats on.

And yet.

I recently came across a quote from Amma, an Indian spiritual leader also known as "the hugging saint." Among her wise words are these:

"Don't be discouraged by your incapacity to dispel darkness from the world. Light your candle and step forward."

Let there be light?

It's up to us.

Little lights add up.

I wear this close to my heart. Read on to find out why.

Shortly after I added my previous essay, I noticed that I had reached a milestone for Momentary Joy:
My 100th posting! 
I rarely play the lottery, but I do enjoy playing with numbers, though not in the strictly mathematical sense.
I even have a lucky number.
It's 13.
I suppose you could say (if you know and love weird words) that instead of triskaidekaphobia, I have triskaidekaphilia.
The Urban Dictionary describes that tongue-twisting word as "obsession with the number 13."
I'm not obsessed, just amused by how often that number turns up in my life.
For example, I was born on Friday the 13th.
The numbers in the address of my childhood home add up to 13.
The numbers in the address of the house I live in now add up to 13.
At my first newspaper job, my phone extension was 13.
At my next newspaper job, I was assigned a computer file number of 13.
Some of the 13s I chose myself:
I have worn the number 13 on my softball jersey for years, except for a few seasons when I wore 49 ... which adds up to 13.
I confess that when possible, I pick gym lockers with numbers that add up to 13.
Hmmm. Maybe that Urban Dictionary definition isn't so far off.
My very logical husband gently teases me about my … affection for the number, even suggesting that if I tried hard enough, I could find patterns in my life connecting to other numbers. Maybe, but hey, those other numbers aren't my lucky number, they're someone else's.
A recent case in point:

Abington Free Library just completed its annual Mimi Zabel Jewelry Auction.
I had never placed a bid in the silent auction, which is held through the month of November. On the auction's penultimate day (I almost never get to use that word!), I decided to take a look at the offerings.
One pin caught my eye almost immediately: a black circle with mother of pearl inlays, depicting a night sky complete with crescent moon and a shooting star.
My husband and I saw a shooting star on our first date, and we both made the same wish that night, which happily came true. (Even very logical people sometimes play with magic.) 
In short, that pin spoke to my heart.
Then I noticed the number attached to it: 85 … which adds up to 13.
I flipped open the binder to find the bids for item 85. The most recent entry was a bid for $10.
It only took me a second to decide what to bid: $13.
Apparently it was meant to be.
A few days later the phone rang. One of the Friends of the Library was calling to tell me that I had won the bidding for the pin.
Lucky me!
And, lucky 13.
---
(As I wrote this, I noticed that the number for the pin, 85, also happens to be the year we were married. I almost feel like cueing up the music for "The Twilight Zone.")

I've said it before: You're never too old to play outside. 

My husband and I enjoyed Sunday brunch recently at the Spring Mill Cafe in Conshohocken, followed by a bike ride along the Schuylkill River Trail. 

A kid at heart, he likes to make a game of our rides and hikes, often suggesting we track down something unusual along the route. Last winter, for instance, we played a game of seek-and-find with the statue of the Lenape chief along Forbidden Drive. (We played that same game in September with friends, the hunt made harder by the canopy of leaves.)

On this sunny Sunday we had a new goal: finding huge wind chimes my husband thought he had seen a while back, somewhere along the river.

"Somewhere along the river" covers quite a stretch, but we were optimistic. His instincts told him to get off the path and head down River Road. 

"Off the beaten path" is a good way to describe this less-taken road, nestled between the river and the train tracks. I got a '60s feel as we pedaled past gardens, yard art, plant-covered porches and peace signs. 

As we approached a wide green lawn leading to the riverbank, my husband spotted the chimes. There are three of them, huge indeed, hanging from tall trees in the center of the grass. An inviting hammock rests below.

Earlier he had said it might take a hurricane to make those chimes ring, and he just may be right. The light breeze that day did nothing to move those pipes, some of them over 4 feet long.

"Should we ring them?" I said, already knowing the answer to that question.

I looked around.

No fence, no sign saying "Keep out," no one else in sight.

"I'll hold your bike," my husband said.

Feeling like a mischievous kid, I ran to the first set of chimes and gently swung the wooden clapper. Low, harmonic tones sounded.

I turned to the center set  -- the Big Ben of the group -- and did the same. Even deeper tones gonged.

I set the smallest set to ringing, adding to the chorus, then ran back to my bike, feeling giddy and happy.

As we pedaled away I shouted, "Thank you!" to the unseen owners of those beautiful instruments.

I'm sure I'm not the first person to give in to that irresistible impulse; I'm also sure I won't be the last.

I may have to go back for an encore.

Phone cameras do come in handy.

One of my favorite reasons to look up in Philadelphia.

I met my husband for lunch in Center City yesterday, a more than momentary joy.

We also got to see our son, which always warms this mother's heart.

On my way back to the train station, I felt like a tourist, gazing up at skyscrapers, marveling at marble inlays, bronze sculptures, amazing stonework.

Heading home, I got a kick out of seeing my folks' house from the railroad side, zipping by the suburban back yards of my childhood.

'Twas a good day.