Little. It seems to be the throughline of my days lately.
I got on an airplane and white-knuckled my armrest as we defied gravity (and left my stomach on the runway). I looked out the tiny window, saw the familiar network of roads shrink to the size of model train tracks; the cars and trees and buildings that made up the entirety of my world were nothing but Thomas the Tank Engine props. And I am that little.
I read about a man who realized his conceitedness by realizing it in a character and in an author he had previously discounted. I saw Jane Austen in a new light, appreciated her ability to make much of the little, because the little is what our lives are truly made of. Though I may have hopes and dreams to change the whole of the world, my sphere of influence is truly quite little (but even little can become deep, even if it is never big).
I left my girls--my sweet babies who need me for everything--with my parents while Professor and I are away. There has been no crying for Mama. I'm not as all-important as I thought; I am little.
I sat in on microbiology presentations (including Professor's, which was wonderful, of course). They were entirely over my head, with their larger-than-life images of microscopic things that I have no hope of understanding. I am little.
When my ineptitude and lack of caffeine drove me away from the scientists, I meandered toward the sea. I had forgotten how loud the ocean is. Wave after wave crashed to the shore, always and never the same. The power, the roar. I thought, "And this is but a shadow of the power of God." He is big; I am so little.
Once upon a time, I was going to conquer the world, whatever that meant. But maybe conquering my own self-importance is enough.
I am little, and that matters.