The weekend has been lovely. First there was the churro-eating incident on Thursday night when I felt an inexplicable rush of happiness in the here and now. Then Friday when J began the day by bringing me white hydrangeas and colored pencils. (He always was a person after my own heart.) And today.
We meandered around on the canyon roads intending to find a park to while away Sunday. But quite by accident we found another park, and of course we just proceeded to do the whiling away there, the other park having become unnecessary to find. This one had a nice wedge of grass under an old sycamore with a sliver of water running past. On the other edge was a large group, about 30 in all, apparently involved in some sort of informal church.
J had packed a hamper of fruit and goodies, having taken my whining for French toast the previous morning as fair warning that I would be hungry all weekend. There was Scrabble, of which we had one very sedate game. I took a stab at starting a new book (marvelous, new author, great find) and ate a red plum whose juice splashed onto the grass. Meanwhile J, who is reading about Leonardo da Vinci, showed me a self-portrait by the great man himself. "Do you think," J asks, "Leonardo could ever have imagined that one day there would be a couple in a park admiring his work somewhere across the globe and across the centuries?"
But mostly, we just sat on our foldable chairs, still sandy from the last excursion to the beach. If we looked up, it was to a grand filigree of sycamore leaves sighing in the wind. I think there is a word for this sound, I told J...susurrus. Too bad you didn't make that in Scrabble, he says, ending with a truism typical for him, "that's a you word."
Sometimes people ask me if I'm not bored. I'm not employed, you see. But to that I always say, I have all this. How can I be bored? I find it is a great privilege to feel happiness in this world, which with each passing day feels like a glass globe that we are smashing from the inside, maliciously, at every chance.