A friend posted a picture of a sifter on social media. He included a dare as to its identity. Having passed home ec in the sixties this was not difficult for me. At least not as difficult as getting my bundt to rise after using one to sort lumps out of the snowy white flour. 

 

Looking back on the past involves another sifter. Surely my satisfaction about the green plaid skirt I sewed in that class, where the teacher taught me how to match plaids, has been sorted from the less amicable feelings that swirl in middle school. Many of us have a dozen of those. A sharp memory does resurface to me now. Having made a brightly flowered dress with a ruffled collar, I was mortified to realize that the zipper was slipping open. I backed up against my locker and would not move no matter what my curious friends said. Finally a girl offered me her sweater and I was spared further humiliation. 

 

It is within our grasp to recall joy. Sharing the hardships is a way to process them as well and I have no desire to minimize it. But taking a few minutes each turn of the sun to sift through the mundane and find the snowstorm of sweetnesses that are ours for the tasting has sustained me. When I feel exposed to shame or loss it is the warmth of small miracles that protect me. 

 

Calling to mind our blessings is not simply icing on the cake. It is the cake.