There are days that unfold like a paper chatterbox. Each change bringing something perfectly appropriate for the moment.
A sleep in, woken naturally with a leg stretch, and the thought of what to eat, when you can summon the energy to arise.
Breakfast made by someone else, especially for you. Then a coffee made by you, as no one else really knows how you like it so.
Reading something that diverts your thoughts for a moment, then moving towards the pot plants around on the deck, watering, dividing ferns, encouraging them to be brave enough to unfurl their tender fronds into the world.
Eating an Easter Egg, while watching a film that requires no real intellectual strain.
A nap, while you wait for the washing cycle to finish. Hanging out clothes in the light breeze, the snap and flick of each garment reassuring you of your capabilities, before you secure it with pegs reminding you that no matter who you are, there is a simple pleasure of hanging washing that has thrilled washers for centuries. I imagine the medieval peasant women wandering out of their huts, hands on hips and staring at the sky and declaring, ‘Tis most splendid a drying day.’
Walking around the neighbourhood, stopping to watch the ginger cat sun himself on the grass outside his house. And I am sure it his house, the humans are only staying there because he is a righteous dude and knows they would be in an alley somewhere if it weren’t for him. People pause their lives to check on this cat, in supine position on the nature strip. Has it been hit by a car? Is it ill? No. The cat stares at them and rolls his cats eyes. ‘Stupid humans,’ he announces. He is right.
Home to make something that requires little effort with maximum taste. Pasta it is. Clean sheets. A tidy house. The lamps on in the front room. No one is fighting. No one is crying. No one is rushing. We are all here.
These are the days that stop you from stepping off the chair, or filling up the bath, or standing on the edge of the cliff.
The days like this remind you that stillness exists. Not to rush. Not to push. Not to expect. Just to be.
Days like this are rarer than finding a Phoenix nest. It has been too long between perfect days. Years maybe.
I grasped the day and hung on tight until I went to bed that night.
Then I said a prayer of thanks to the benevolent Cat God, Bastet, lying on the grass at the house around the corner, for allowing me to have this day.