Dare I say it?
A perfect Sunday.
Balmy weather. Clear skies, seemingly forever. A body with no new aches and with those that are a tad too familiar a little less so today.
In the morning, an impromptu date to meet a friend for a bike ride. An easy 15-mile ride through various “terrains,” from busy city streets to shaded and nearly deserted bike paths. All of them safe. A delicious lunch stop in the middle of all that meandering on the bike.
And now, dinner – foods from the bounty of farms from around here – cooking slowly. And the night still young. And even when it grows old with the hours, there will be plenty of light. And there will be also fresh water to drink or to bathe in, or waste on the wash. And then, there will be the quiet of the bed, with sheets and pillows, and all sorts of other comforts.
I am grateful for this day.
No, that’s not exactly the right term. I think what I mean to say is that I am humbled by the happiness this day has brought in its seeming simplicity.
But it’s not simple at all; the foundation of my carefree day is an intricate web in which there is so much trouble caught, so much turmoil, so much desiccating suffering, that to luxuriate in happiness would seem a betrayal – almost an act of aggression. And yet I must own the happiness that the day gave me. To refuse this gift, would be a betrayal as well.