The President is in India; a new dinosaur has just been discovered in Grand Staircase-Escalante, Utah; I have new internet service at home; koi ate fish food from a man's hand while children watched; whitecaps raced on the bay, running before a stiff wind; there is an increasing rarity and expense of chocolate expected in the future; my uncle is recovering from surgery; sweeping the floor was a good idea; fixing my clock still needs to be done.  

Random images are leaping into the wading pool of my mind at the same time; all the water is gone, splashed out by the crowd.  

I'm wondering if it's better to just leave it all there and go off to bed or try and find some deeper layer of understanding in it, some order and meaning.  Is wisdom to be found in this heap of incidental oddity?  

Amidst the mile markers of the day stand signposts indicating a certain direction of travel that I pay attention to:  Equanimity and Love.  

A few things that happen matter a lot.  Their impact is intense and flings you against a hard wall.  All the fine, good things in a long string of days prepare you for the inevitable situation when you find yourself hitting a wall, sliding down to the floor, undone and uncertain.  The good things get you through the hard ones, and it's love which nourishes you until you need it in times of fear.  

All the junk and static in a day fades away gradually until I see the one jewel remaining:  Love.  It's always there but easily missed when fear grips me.  In the end, I have to laugh at what the day is filled with, take note of the random events sailing by.  When finally something important happens, I've got a reserve of love and sense of what I want to do about hitting that hard old wall.