On Thursday, two days after the US election, I cycled to my volunteer gig at the craft store. Perhaps one of the last good-weather days for bike riding. No rain, trees shedding their remaining coloured leaves, a bright blue sky. The wind rushed into my face as I flew along the bike path, and my eyes started to water, which set forth a gush of tears because grief is like that. It sits inside you—a tight, impacted ball, unexpressed—and then some external trigger unfurls it like a flag. Eyes watering from the wind or a song or a television show. I cried all of the way, tears streaming down my cheeks, salt drops flying back into the wind that gave birth to them. I was happy to find in my purse a ruby-red cotton hanky to mop up the tears. Double delight.

I locked my bike then stopped at the Parsonage Cafe and waited for my order, a latte and warmed blueberry muffin with butter. The latte came first, and I asked about the muffin because I thought maybe they’d forgotten about it. The friendly counter guy said, “oh, it takes a few minutes because they warm muffins in the oven.” I smiled. When I got to the craft store, I turned on the lights and heat, cashed in, then took the warm muffin out of the brown paper bag. Two halves fell open, steaming. Salty butter had melted into the crumb to mix with soft, warm blueberries. I was expecting a little plastic tub of butter and a plastic knife, so what a delight. Thank you for doing it, delightfully, the old way. Like cotton handkerchiefs instead of Kleenex.

During my shift I met interesting people, as I do every week. Two women came in, one with an unusual looking buggy, not a baby buggy, but a pet buggy. Two zipped, mesh compartments were stacked on a wheeled frame. She came up to me immediately. “I have my two cats with me, is that okay?” 

“Of course. I love cats. I’ll come to meet them.” 

“This is Ronny, and this is Jimmy. Jimmy is a bit shy; you can see he’s at the back.” I could see two lean black cats—brothers I determined later—through the fine mesh. Ronny sniffed the hand I lay against the fabric. Jimmy just watched with golden eyes. 

The two women browsed the store, staying a good long time. Other customers came in and out. A few years ago, I would have fretted over it. I actually didn’t know what the store policy was regarding animals. Was it okay that cats were in the store?  Did other customers have allergies? Did somebody dislike cats? Were we breaking a rule? But I didn’t say a thing, and I didn’t worry. (I recognized, later, the delightful absence of worry). I just listened to the lovely chatter that fills the store and makes me want to come back and work another Thursday, even as I constantly wonder if it’s the right volunteer gig for me. 

Women (mostly) talking about life and about their crafts and projects, oohing and ahhing over the treasures they find. Often chatting with me about what they’re working on, a crone stick or a pocket skirt or an appliqued cat pillow. Or they tell me whom they are buying materials for—a daughter learning to knit, a grandchild who loves stickers. 

The cat owner talked with her friend, but she also spoke periodically to her cats. “Oh, Jimmy, what a nice stretch you’re having!” And “You boys are so good, so patient.” When she came to pay, she had a bag bulging with Christmas foam shapes. “I’m giving these to our craft leader at the church; she’ll have the children making wonderful things.” I don’t know for sure, but I hazard a guess that she is one of those revered creatures, a childless cat lady, the most generous and loving people around. Delight!

After my shift, I cashed out, set the alarm, turned the key. I unlocked my bike, then looked up at the darkening sky. It was only 4:15, but daylight savings is over and we’re in for early nights. I looked at my bike light and wondered how to turn it on. Somehow, I had forgotten. It had been months since I’d used it, not needing extra light during my summer rides. I tried a few things, but nothing worked, so I walked half a block to North Park Bikes. Leaving my bike just outside, I went into the store’s lower level where they do repairs. A friendly guy with a ginger beard asked if he could help. “I’m kinda embarrassed, but I’ve forgotten how to turn on my bike light.”

 “Oh, don’t be embarrassed, just bring it in, we’ll figure it out.” I wheeled it in, and the first thing he tried (keep steady pressure on the + button) worked. “Thank you sooo much!”  A simple, delightful thing: help asked for and freely given.

At the end of the day, I had many delights to gather (I have been inspired by Ross Gay’s Book of [More] Delights since I finished it a few days ago; it’s just as good as the first book). Tears released into the wind, cotton hanky, butter melting into a warm muffin, sweet customers, absence of worry, childless cat ladies, help with my bike.