When I see you walking your blindingly white scrumptious fluff ball of a dog just after six p.m. in your work clothes and the two of you break out into a full on gallop when you get to the downhill part of your stroll—wind screaming through both of your hairs and the evening sun shining a light on both of your faces—you better be careful because not only do you break the cuteness joy meter but you put us other humans to shame.
Sometimes on Saturday, after my brother and I have caught and eaten a beautiful yellow butterfly, much to our mother’s uproarious dismay, we like to take a self-imposed time-out by cuddling with our favorite toys—not moving an inch as she continues to judge us as murderers. And during this no-move-is-the-best-move time we like to plead with her to forgive us our trespasses because we know not what we have done.
Yours In Everlasting Forgiveness,
Lazy afternoons and slow evenings are my favorite type of weekend time. Long, languid hours spent picking out what tasks to do. Leisurely walks with the dogs. Overcast skies that turn to sunny shininess then back to overcast. Thinking about what I will conjure up for dinner. What time is the game on? Making time to write in that suspended space of not having to write but simply wanting to. Feeling the separation between day into night—how it envelopes the house slowly as the indoor lights go on. That glow of dusk, that undeniable feeling of sleep coming soon and knowing that sleep will blend into Monday—another week. It all wraps around me and soothes my racey mind. It calms and coddles my restlessness and casts a glowy reflection over things. Most of all, it settles me into the beauty of my routine and reminds me that the small, simple, predictable things are the way toward solace.
Look How Close the Light Seems,
Thelma the Thinker
Sometimes on Saturday, after we’ve politely endured a whole week with our new little brother we like to take the morning to grab some alone time and dig into our precious Froggy with all the chew-tastic energy that exists within us. And while we’re chomping and ripping and gnawing and thinking that life will never be the same prior to when this other little guy came into our homestead, our mother enters the room rather calmly and snuggles up to us and asks us the usual questions about how we got so handsome and what makes us the Best Guy in the World and suddenly we get that deep knowing feeling in our tummy that everything will continue to be just right.
Yours In Feeling Worthy,
911. Power scarves
913. Dog booties