A variety of plans fell through for this Sunday, so I've considered it a windfall. My mom always taught me that a windfall was to be spent on pleasure, so I'm enjoying this gray day with my new Elizabeth Berg book, last night's pajamas, an english muffin with apricot jam, and a pot of coffee. I'm settling for fat-free half and half, but other than that, it's pretty perfect. My couch is next to my lilac bush. The raindrops are tapping the scent right off of the flowers and into my open window. Ginger is snuggled at my feet, the girls are upstairs watching Hairspray, and Patrick is marching in a parade. The afternoon with bring a bikeride with the Saads and a few errands and preparations for the week, but for now, I am giving a little grateful shout-out for this tiny pocket of Sunday solitude.
You know, normally I would write this in my journal before I dive back into my book. Not sure if anyone in the wide world would be remotely interested in this little picture, but since I was going to write it anyway, I thought I'd write it here.
I'll knock on some wood as I type this, but, in the words of Anne, "I feel pretty nearly perfectly happy." She held onto a tiny shred of disappointment because of her red hair; my shreds of disappointment are not so cosmetic, but right this minute, I feel that those bruises are far from me, tucked quietly into pages of notebooks that I don't need to open right now. I feel like I'm just holding fast to happy, and I hope it sticks around.