Always, there is plenty to mourn in this world. Plenty to worry about. Plenty to try and change. But I don’t want to write about those things today.
Maybe it’s because this morning I went barefoot in the garden and picked snap peas for breakfast.
Maybe it’s the rare thunderstorm that rolled in last weekend and drenched us while we foraged in the blueberry bog.
Maybe it’s my chickens, weaving in and out of the nettles and wildflowers and pushki, clucking the way chickens cluck when they’re happy.
Maybe it’s that my mom is here for the summer and we can walk through the wooded trail to the bakery and there we can solve the world’s problems over a sandwich and a cup of soup.
Maybe it’s the freezer full of salmon and the sweet, sweet strawberries growing alongside the driveway.
Maybe it’s the higher than average number of coffee-on-the-deck mornings we’re having.
Maybe it’s this town, with its people who aren’t afraid to dance late into the night on a Tuesday.
Maybe it’s that I wake up every day with a dog tucked sweetly into the bend in my knees.
Maybe it’s sitting in the shade of an umbrella on a friend’s deck, drinking drinks and catching up while her golden retriever puppy nibbles at my toes.
Maybe it’s the evidence of sun on my skin, my flip-flop tan, the way we haven’t had to build a fire in the woodstove for days.
Maybe in this moment it’s the squirrel out there, taunting my dogs from the safety of a spruce tree. Or that raven that just flew past the open door, owning this meadow in a way I never will.
Maybe it’s the knowing that all of this, it has nothing to do with blessings or earning or deserving. It’s just that I’m lucky.
The weight of it all hits me hard some days.