The golden moments in the stream of life rush past us, and we see nothing but sand; the angels come to visit us, and we only know them when they are gone.

The good hours rarely announce themselves while they are happening. They look like an ordinary Tuesday, a conversation in a kitchen, somebody still in the house, and you only see what they were once the arrangement has changed. That is less a failure of attention than how attention works; the ordinary usually has to end before it can stand out against anything.

You cannot catch all of them, and straining to will spoil the ones you have. Choose one stretch of this week, though, and name it to yourself while you are still inside it. That much is possible.