I do not write in my journal.
My "gift" list lies fallow.
Blogger has not seen me.
I am silent in ink.
Yet in life . . .
I laugh
I love
I cook
I dance
I play
I read
I rest
I celebrate nothing special . . . for it is ALL special.
* * *
Have I poured out all I have to give/say/write?
No.
Has the well run dry?
No.
Rather . . . I feel as if I am on holiday --
a great glorious spate of time devoted to simply being . . .
. . . at play
. . . at rest
. . . at table
. . . at ease.
It feels so good to enjoy each simple moment, be they devoted to:
peeling a cucumber,
slicing a tomato,
hearing a harp/flute duet played in the music room,
reading slowly in a hot afternoon,
sipping a summery banana-pineapple-coconut smoothie,
simply being at summer.
"Remember," whispers the ink pen.
"Capture," croons the paper.
I reach for my journal
and smile
at the thought of another
bliss-filled summer day
ripe for the picking,
sweet to the tasting.
How's your summer going?
