Tiny moments are filled with cosmic grandeur. Such moments of grace make life worth living. A ladybug tipping a long green blade of grass, the whir of a hummingbird in the lilac, a mountain floating on a cloud. The form of the moment could be anything, because the blessing comes not from the object, but from the Radiance of our attention.
Such bejeweled moments cannot be strung together into a story. Stories unravel. But each moment is its own cosmos, suspended in the sparkling void of awareness. The moment is never planned. Planning kills. The moment is given, when the mind is still and all seeking has ended.