The past few days have been busy, filled, chockablock with work to be done. The normal housework at home, and the exciting rehab work at the new house. The school work. The work work. I've been very busy, and it makes for boring reading, I imagine, this ordinary life I live.
But in the midst of the boring blog reports, there are small moments of pleasure ~ that cat allowing itself to be picked up and petted. He looked around alertly, not at me. He nestled comfortably in my arm, studying the world. As if he was already my cat, as if being held by me was already an ordinary moment for him.
Saturday night, Tim and I sprawled on a blanket under the stars eating piping hot french fries and talking to each other. There were fireworks, publicly. Privately.
I had the pleasure of a long phone conversation with a friend last night.
I have the pleasure of a clean house. (Yes. Still.)
It is the second blisteringly hot day. I am tired, up at 3:30 to go put away freight at the store, up at my mother's to clean for her, back home to tidy my own little house for our company tomorrow. Now I'm sprawled lazily, limp and sweaty, and tired. I listen to the sounds of the woods, knowing that I'll have to get used to different sounds. I'm reading a book, a memoir of a woman's childhood, and what she grew up to be. It's a mildly interesting book, a pleasant read. I have no energy to wrestle with complicated plot lines right this minute. The final lines of it are "I hardly touch ground the last blocks to Grand Central, but come triumphantly to rest alone on Forty-second Street, on the edge of evening. I am beginning. My life is beginning which cannot be true."
I remember the exhileration of being 23. I remember moments when my feet hardly touched the ground. What struck me poignantly is that now I am 54. I realize that although I am nowhere near Grand Central Station, or Forty-second St, I feel as if her words could be my own. Even still.
It's an ordinary time for me, with extraodinary small moments of pleasure.