By Andrea Lingle

“One by one, Lord, I see and I love all those whom you have given me to sustain and charm my life. One by one also I number all those who make up that other beloved family which has gradually surrounded me its unity fashioned out of the most disparate elements . . . And again one by one—more vaguely it is true, yet all-inclusively—I call before me the whole vast anonymous army of living humanity; those who surround me and support me though I do not know them; those who come, and those who go; above all, those who . . . truly believe in the progress of earthly reality and who today will take up again their impassioned pursuit of the light.” (Chardin, The Mass on the World, “The Offering”)

“The Lord will guide you continually,
and satisfy your needs in parched places,
and make your bones strong;
and you shall be like a watered garden,
like a spring of water,
whose waters never fail.
Your ancient ruins shall be rebuilt;
you shall raise up the foundations of many generations;
you shall be called the repairer of the breach,
the restorer of streets to live in.”

— ISAIAH 58:11–12

How does one live one by one? To see each car that passes, not as a soulless mechanized obstacle, but as a vehicle containing someone who ate oatmeal with fresh blueberries and granola this morning, who takes his coffee in a precise sixty-forty coffee to milk ratio, and loves to listen to ‘80’s pop. He is on his way to pick up his brother from the bus station. He will be staying for a while. Just until he gets back on his feet.

To live one by one is to look—really look at life. As a painter looking to see, not what should be there, but what is there. What is the shape of the chickadee’s eye? A circle? An oval? A bare crescent? What is the color of the passing cloud? It is the same grey as the mourning dove or more like weathered cedar? Does it catch the sunset in the exact pink of the preening flamingo or the secret vault of the conch? Does the heart that loses too much ache or yearn? Does it require a mug of chamomile or a bowl of rocky road?

To live one by one is to refuse to prioritize efficiency over dignity. It is to see the frustration of failure and resist the urge to fix or mend or impose. It is to settle down in the midst of the shards of life and begin to hum. Just a tiny melody. Maybe just a folk tune. But make it something that compels the toe and lures the hidden smile. Make it something that refuses varnish or buffed shine—leave the ragged edges in. Let the agony of each hour echo through your throat in a simple, throaty blur. Then make it a harmony. Look each other in the eye and let your twining voices make something that has never been. Don’t record it! Don’t scribble it down! Let it be for your broken hearts. Hoard the moment. Weave your voices into that which will only be for a moment, then let it go…

Let it fade into nothing. Let the broken pieces of effort absorb the music then sweep it all up and toss it in the corner of the garden. You might not know what to do with it, but the worms do. Let them try their hand or mouth. Give it to their guts.

Living one by one. Letting the world break and charm you. Holding out hope. Seeing and singing. Dancing and painting. Making and loving. These are the singular joys of living.