Small and Wonderful Things . . .

 

 "The world is fairly studded and strewn with pennies cast broadside from a generous hand. But who gets excited by a mere penny?...It is dire poverty indeed when a man is so malnourished and fatigued that he won't stoop to pick up a penny. But if you cultivate a healthy poverty and simplicity, so that finding a penny will literally make your day, then, since the world is in fact planted with pennies, you have with your poverty bought a lifetime of days. It is that simple. what you see is what you get." ~Anne Dillard  

A few of the small and wonderful things which bring untold joy into my life.   It's the small things in life which truly mean the most.  Simple abundance . . . it's the best.  

 

I love these early mornings which I have all to myself.   The only ones here are me and you, my invisible friends . . .  and Mitzie of course.   I am alone with my thoughts with no interruption . . .  save a wet cold nose ever now and again nudging my shins, reminding me she is still there.   A quick tickle behind her ears and she is happy and goes back to sleep.

I sit here in my chair and pen my thoughts . . .  three hundred and sixty five days a year, or as close to it as I can get.   Each morning through the window in front of me I watch the milk float glide silently down the street as the milk man delivers little pint bottles to all of his customers . . .  and they still clink as they did when I was young.  A sound that has never changed.

These days the back door stays open in the mornings . . .  it is warm enough to do that . . .  and the morning chorus from the sparrows which live in our hedge delights me with a melody that only they can sing and that I feel pretty blessed to hear.  Be it ever so.

The only other sound is that of my fingers tap tapping on the keys in front of me . . . yes, I am one very blessed woman . . .  and a part of that blessing comes from the fact that I know it to be so . . .



After reading Susan Branch last evening my thoughts were given over to picnics for a time.  My mother was not a picnicking type of person.  She hated insects of any kind and has spent her whole life in pursuit of trying to keep them out of her immediate presence.  She did not do picnics.  I spent a good portion of my childhood longing to go on a picnic.   Sometimes my begging would get the best of her and she would fix me little peanut butter sandwiches, wrapping them up in waxed paper.   An empty jar would be filled with cool-aid and the whole lot put into a paper sac and I would take myself off on my bicycle into the woods where I would picnic on my own beneath the birch and elm and oak . . .  surrounded by wild flowers, moss and bird song.  I don't think peanut butter sandwiches and cool-aid ever tasted so good, or ever will again . . .  no matter how many times I try to replicate those moments.  They are safely tucked away in the recesses of my mind, to be taken out and revisited with the rose coloured glasses of memory every now and again . . .  eternally seen as  golden moments . . . and perhaps it is best that way.

The closest we ever came to having a picnic as a family was one summer when we were visiting one of my mother's cousins in Vermont.   They lived in a large old rambling farm house at the top of a hill and we ate supper that first night at picnic tables in the back yard on the top of that hill, bathed in the warm light of a setting sun as we feasted on potato salad and fried chicken and green bean casserole.  Nothing had ever tasted as good before . . . or has tasted as good since, and I doubt it ever will.   Memories make things taste ever so wonderful don't you think?  You can never hope to match the flavour of a happy memory, and I guess that is as it should be.



The fuscia are full of little pink globes just waiting to burst open and delight us with their presence and beauty.  They are one of the later arrivals to the summer ball.  They like to make an entrance I guess and do not want it spoiled by having to share the attention of their arrival with anyone else.  They do it so very well. . . . but right across from them are the budlia . . .



whom I'm afraid do steal the show, especially when their dance partners are these beautiful peacock butterflies . . . who have decided to delight us two years in a row now.   We are so very blessed.  Oh yes we are . . .



Our summer garden is so alive . . . it hums and buzzes beneath the sun and delights the soul at every turn with scent and sight and sound.  It makes one feel quite quite happy to be alive.  Joy doesn't cost a penny . . .  and there is joy in every moment of every day to be found . . .



It is not found in huge gestures and events . . .  but in the small and wonderful things . . . and special moments which surround the heart which actively seeks them . . .

✻ღϠ₡ღ✻ (¯`✻´¯)
                   `*.¸.*✻ღϠ₡ღ¸.✻´´¯`✻.¸¸.Ƹ̴Ӂ̴Ʒ..
"There are only two ways to live a life.   
One is as though nothing is a miracle. 
The other is as though everything is a miracle.”
~Albert Einstein  ✫¸¸.·´¯`✫ ✫¸¸.·´¯`✫

 

Cooking in The English Kitchen today  . . .  a delicious Bumbleberry Cobbler.

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Have a fabulous Monday.  I hope it is filled to overflowing with small and wonderful things!