I have just spent about an hour outside at the picnic table.
In the sun.
In sleeveless top.
Mostly keeping sleeping Max-in-diaper company and making sure he kept sleeping and didn't get up and wander away.
Lilac scent wafting around the corner of the house.
Mockingbird singing, singing, from the tops of the trees, one song to another. He barely stops for breath.
Doug brought over a small dump load of fifteen-year-old cow manure for the garden. It shines in the sun like black gold, looks as if it could at any moment burst into growth without benefit of any human effort.
I read my Cooking Light magazine. Even if I never made any of the recipes, that magazine makes me feel good. The recipes all look so simple and so beautiful, and mostly easy provided I could keep my mind on what I was doing for five minutes. It's a magazine full of Possibility.
All that joy and it's still only 10am.