I’m in a good space at the moment.
The wacko menopausal health issues seem to be in check for now, my men are doing well, and life is gentle.
With both boys now out of school, the rhythm of our household has changed. Our sons are young men now – they manage their own schedules, get themselves to and fro unassisted, and have even taken over their own washing and cleaning.
Big Boy is proving a deft hand in the kitchen; Small Man less so. Our dinner conversations continue to be quirky and interesting, with a constantly changing focus. Every night, as I watch my three men deep in discussion, I give thanks for such a harmonious and loving family. I can’t remember the last time an angry word was exchanged at the dinner table.
This morning, as I started to unstack the dishwasher, I noticed that the sun was rising. So I downed tools and sat outside with my hot drink, basking in the gentle warmth of the autumn light. It was a very soothing way to start the day.
Perhaps it’s a sign of middle age, but lately I’ve been filled with gratitude for the small things, and each day it seems to be something different. This morning, it was the little blue pen I was writing my shopping list with. It was just a 50c biro, but I suddenly felt incredibly fortunate to have a whole drawer of pens to write with. Thirty years ago, my friends Cath and Andrew went around Africa in the back of a converted army truck, carrying pockets full of biros to use as currency – such was the shortage at the time of writing implements in some of the poorer regions.
Often in our first world lives, commodities become so cheap that we cease to value them. I know the faux bone-handled knives in my cutlery drawer aren’t worth much, but I adore them – for their history, and the way they feel in my hand, and the way they spread butter on a piece of toast. I love that we humans use tools, and I’m particularly happy when I find a clever piece of kit that makes my life easier. Like my offset spatula. I’ll stop now before I work my way through the entire utensils drawer.
Einstein once said…“There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle.”
I haven’t always been good at the latter, but I’ve been practising.
I’ve been watching the sun and marveling at the miracle of light and heat, and listening to my boys and feeling my heart throb at the timbre of their voices. I’m spending time staring at fossils that are hundreds of millions of years old and wondering how it’s possible to be holding a remnant of such ancient life in my hands. I’ve been turning off my devices and engaging in actual conversations with old friends, laughing and crying and sharing hard times as well as happy ones. And I’m trying to focus my attention on the minutiae – on the difference in taste between the peppermint and spearmint that grows in our garden, and the feel of bread dough under my fingers, and the perfect zigzag our resident St Andrews Cross spider weaves into her webs.
Life is good at the moment. Gentle and mindful and wondrous and happy.
Much love to you all. ♥