A Polish man in pitch-dark of the moonless November evening, selling his sketches door-to-door in confused and broken Swedish. His sketching case patched with tape. His dripping umbrella folded haphazardly. The sight of it touched me. I bought a portrait of a small sleeping boy he said was his nephew, curled up with a cat.
Sitting at our kitchen table (the clock edging towards "the indecent hours") eating spicy fries baked with cheddar cheese, black pepper, and green onions, dipped in sour cream or homemade honey mustard, and talking about love.
The comforting feeling of achievement when I walk in our bedroom to see the rather large cupboard-desk that I yesterday disassembled in the wet and cold, hauled inside, and reassembled before Martin returned home.
Indulging in (basking, really) the absolutely overstated "superwoman" compliment from my kind husband.
A conversation with my mom, loving and wise, who willing got out of bed to talk when I called too late. How blessed am I to enjoy a friendship (and receive advice from) with someone who has known me since birth, loves me unconditionally, has lived a life of experience and grace, and freely shares her thoughts without expectations, demands or condescension. Awfully sad how often people waste their years not hearing the wisdom of experience from people around them; taking their proximity or relationship for granted, only realizing what they've missed when it's out of reach. (This is a reminder to self not to do so!)
Expectations of my pursuits of the day: things that give absurd pleasure like reorganizing, painting, designing and writing, and drinking that first cup of hot black tea swirling with cream (or condensed milk, even better) and honey. I love tea absurdly much.
Planning a tea. I bake scones, provide the butter and the cream and the tea, and each guest brings at least one jar of jam or compote or marmalade. Oh, delicious!
Lovely posting.
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