I was wondering today if I could write a blog about nothing. Sort of like a Seinfeld episode, which makes me laugh even though I know the entire series is about nothing. But if I keep coming back, watching old reruns (the parking garage, the junior mint, the soup Nazi) there must be something there. What is funny about nothing?

That makes me wonder, what exactly is nothing? Seinfeld is about life in a community of friends. Just the daily stuff. Maybe the daily stuff is nothing. My daily stuff sure seems like nothing. Nothing exciting, nothing special, nothing to write home about.  So, what would I write home about?

I don’t own anything new and shiny, but I bought groceries today. I’m not lounging in a house perched on the cliffs of Santorini, overlooking the Aegean Sea, but I stayed warm and dry last night under my roof during a torrential storm. No one has asked for my expert opinion today, nor have they knocked on my door for an autograph. Turns out I’m not all that. Nothing special there.

But what about how the afternoon sun is lighting up the underside of a million leaves on the Pin Oak tree outside my window? How about the comforting sound of a snoring beagle, sprawled out on the hardwood floor by my feet? Then there is the life-sustaining aroma of coffee in my bluebird mug. The bluebird mug was a gift from my dear friend Evelyn. I think about her every morning while I hold it, waiting in eager anticipation by the expresso machine. I remember her generosity and I’m thankful for her friendship. Is that nothing? I think that must be something.

Perhaps “something” and “nothing” are just words with relative values. I have food in the cupboard, a roof over my head and coffee in my mug. A hound dog.  Just being here is something.  I guess what is important is that I share my daily stuff with someone else, and our collective daily stuff is what we know as “life.” Life in a community. Yes, there is something there.