Sometimes, albeit rarely, I experience moments of perfect bliss, like this past Saturday morning when I had a quiet house to myself, dogs and birds fed and watered, the beginning of a long week-end stretching far ahead of me, a steaming cup of coffee and cream in one hand and a pearl of a new book in my other hand.
“Quiet in the cup. Hard to believe that isn’t joy, the way it flies away when I fling it out the window.”
― Jenny Offill, Weather
Times like these, I forget that I am middle-aged, two-thirds of my life gone (if I’m lucky), with responsibilities and a messy house and endless lists of things to do before I die, or at least before the end of the month. (God forbid anyone should be burdened with my unfinished business.) In the zone, I have zero ambition and no regrets.
This happy state is such that it makes me forget that we now live in a COVID world, that I haven’t had tea with my parents in over two months and that life outside the house now involves careful PPE planning.
I’m pretty sure what I was feeling at that time was gratitude, not for anything in particular, but rather for the unexpected gift of finding a lost treasure, and the luxury of being able to sit with it for a while. Call it hope if you like.