When was the last time you shared something small — something almost laughably simple — and found it sparked a joy that lingered long after? Maybe it was a gesture so slight, so ordinary, that you almost missed its quiet magic.
It reminds me of how Marcel Proust, in Swann’s Way, the first volume of his larger work À la recherche du temps perdu (In Search of Lost Time), captures the deep comfort he found in his mother’s nightly goodnight kiss. As a child, he would listen anxiously for her footsteps and the soft opening of his bedroom door — small, familiar acts that meant everything to him. On evenings when visitors like Charles Swann lingered too long, delaying this ritual, he would be overwhelmed with longing and sadness. In one tender moment, unable to bear the wait, he sends her a desperate note, and she stays with him for the night. These tiny, repeated gestures became profound anchors of love and security — a reminder that the smallest moments often stay with us the longest.
Wendy Cope’s The Orange captures that same kind of quiet, unassuming happiness. A piece of fruit, shared between friends, becomes a small ritual of connection and gratitude. In just a few lines, Cope shows how joy is often tucked into the overlooked corners of our everyday lives — in shopping trips, in a walk through the park, in simply getting through the day with a sense of ease.
Through her warm, direct language, Cope doesn’t just tell us about happiness; she invites us to notice it for ourselves — to find peace and delight in the ordinary, and to celebrate the simple fact that we are here, alive, able to love and be loved.
"The Orange"
At lunchtime I bought a huge orange—
The size of it made us all laugh.
I peeled it and shared it with Robert and Dave—
They got quarters and I had a half.
And that orange, it made me so happy,
As ordinary things often do
Just lately. The shopping. A walk in the park.
This is peace and contentment. It’s new.
The rest of the day was quite easy.
I did all the jobs on my list
And enjoyed them and had some time over.
I love you. I’m glad I exist.
Maybe the real art of living isn’t in chasing the extraordinary, but in becoming tenderly attuned to the ordinary — in recognizing the soft footsteps at the door, the bright weight of an orange in your hand, the small exchanges that knit our days together.
Proust and Cope both remind us that meaning doesn’t always arrive with fanfare. More often, it slips quietly into our lives, waiting for us to notice.
So today, maybe we can simply pay attention: a shared smile, a kind word, a moment of calm in a busy afternoon. These small things are what make everyday life a little brighter. And perhaps that’s enough. More than enough.
Thank you for reading — I’m glad we crossed paths in this small, quiet way.