I came across the words, as I do many sights that capture my attention, while I was taking my morning walk.

A small square of cement, partially obscured by bushes, leading up to the side entrance of a dark brick bungalow that had been boarded up by the city, displayed an unexpected set of words punctuated by a heart and an immature rendering of a face.

YOU ARE LOVED.

The sight led me to recall my first visit to the Met, The Metropolitan Museum of Art In New York. It’s one of the biggest museums in the world. According to Wikipedia, the art palace at the edge of Central Park holds over two million pieces.

In a single day, thousands of people walk past the same paintings and artifacts. Yet, during my visit, because of the way different collections are set up and displayed, I felt I was alone with what I was viewing.

As I wandered through the museum, I felt like the beauty of the objects were all for me.

I felt the same way when I stumbled on this piece of sidewalk art.

When I looked at these words and simple image of a heart and a face scrawled in pink chalk, I thought about the cave paintings in southern France. I saw Werner Herzog’s documentary, “Cave of Forgotten Dreams” years ago.

The words and images seemed very child-like. The idea that this message was created for someone else to see implies a sort of intentionality I can’t attribute to a child.

The hearts and face might have been the products of a six-year old’s innocence and poor command of proportions, but the words had to be created to be seen by people ready to contemplate the idea.

I had to wonder who put the words here? In plain sight but not easy to notice? In clear and easy to read letters — all caps? In chalk, that would wash away after the next summer thunderstorm?

The mind can play tricks on you. It seems to work in slow motion when you are about to have a car accident, as if knowing in advance that you will try to recall the details that lead up to the event.

As we age, we can remember names we gave our bicycles in the third grade but can’t recall all the items on the shopping list we left on the kitchen counter before we left for the store.

I entertained the thought that my child self, that part of me that carries my hurts and hopes and never grows up, wanted to send the reminder that love is all around me.

If these words were being conveyed by some part of me to another part of me, how come they weren’t written in my journal or as part of a therapist’s assignment?  Why did I just “accidentally” trip upon this message in a walk? In a place where others could read the same words?

I decided not to worry about how the chalk creation got there, who made it, or why I happened to take the route that guided me to observe it. I just took it in.

I thought about my values and about how intentional gratitude has become a focus in my life,.

It’s become a reflex to immerse myself in the moment and experience how the things I know I love and appreciate are all around me.

I love to travel, to take walks and chat with friends. I choose to be happy when I make the commitment to seeing the things that make me feel lucky and connected in my daily life.

It doesn’t matter if I have more “things” than someone else, or even if I have something others don’t have. Comparisons don’t matter. What I do and how I feel about what I do is what counts.

I learned this in my visit to The Met many years ago. It doesn’t matter to me that three thousand other people saw Vermeer’s Study of a Young Woman (“Girl with a Pearl Earring”) the same day. It doesn’t matter that fifteen other people passed the chalk on cement YOU ARE LOVED square in my neighborhood before raindrops erased it.

Cherishing your experiences because they are “all for you” is no small thing.