Every week for over 30 years, my aunt in Caracas, Venezuela, “Tia Lila,” has sent a collective email to me and her other far-flung family members. These dispatches typically start with national news, such as the injustices committed by Venezuela’s dictator du jour, followed by family news, such as marriages and surgeries. Every one of her emails ends with a spiritual lesson. Sandwiched between the news and lesson, however, there’s typically a perplexing meaty middle that consists of pleasant drivel. Topics have included the fries she served at lunch and the state of her favorite walking cane.

Tia Lila’s triviality troubled me. How could she follow up news of her sister’s ICU admittance with an observation about cooked potatoes? Why did she think her cane’s new scratch merited reporting? These mundane musings were especially surprising because as an author, reporter, playwright, professor and actor, my aunt could be spellbinding on countless subjects. Nevertheless, every week she typed up paragraphs of trifling and sent it to her loved ones.

Last Sunday, Tia Lila died of natural causes at the age of 99. I’ve been unfathomably fortunate to have this remarkable woman as a loving presence in my life. She never forgot my birthday. Her home was always open to me. Her advice was refreshingly unusual. I will miss her gravely. But will I miss her mid-email prattling?

As it turns out, I will. Among the many gifts Tia Lila gave me, her greatest might be precisely the one I questioned most: her minutiae. I, finally, understand its value. Relishing the thinness of the fried potatoes on her plate and having a revelation from the nicks on her maple staff weren’t derailments into inanity. They were portals into a bountiful life. Tia Lila’s attention to the quotidian didn’t detract from her exceptional work, deep friendships and persistent joy. In the inexplicable way a melody seeps into our cells and makes our toes tap, small delights fueled my aunt’s magnificence.

For the first time in my adult life, this week I’m unaided by a Tia Lila email. Thanks to hundreds of prior ones, though, I’ll strive to notice the loveliness of vegetables before I fork them. I’ll try to resist bemoaning the blemishes on my belongings and, instead, listen for the story they tell. I’ll work on my ability to be awed at any time by almost anything. If I succeed, I’ll be richer for it. Thank you, Tia Lila, for teaching me that appreciation for the ordinary is what makes life extraordinary.