It's Sunday morning. I took Olive out on a walk this morning. It was chilly but the sun was shining. Mt. Rainier wasn't out, in fact, I haven't seen it in a week or so, but the Olympic mountain range was out in full beauty.
Back home now, I'm sitting on the couch, with the sun streaming through the window, knitting, with the Bob Marley station playing on Pandora, sipping coffee spiked with Bailey's in honor of St. Patrick.
Olive is on the floor, positioned in the sun, playing with her ball. Pushing it under the TV stand, digging it back out. Occasionally looking to us to help her retrieve it when her game goes too far.
My husband is in the kitchen, making crepes. As each one comes off the grill, he says "Oh, this is a really good one, you're definitely getting this one." He fills them with a salted chocolate caramel sauce we brought home from Brittany, France, on our honeymoon.
I find myself thinking, "This is my life. This is a very good life. A very very good life."
More and more often, I find myself thinking this. In the glassblowing studio, seeing a goblet form out of molten glass. On a hike, pushing myself sweaty, being pulled up a hill by my skinny little dog with big ears. Spotting the mountains and the lakes and the sound as I drive home on I-5.
This is my life. And it is a very very good life.
My apartment is messy. I've had the same clothes sitting in the dryer for a few days now. I still have a few boxes to unpack that I may never get to. I have a few projects around the house I have to do. It'd be nice to have a job and not have money be so tight. (It'd be even nicer to win the lottery or somehow have money not be so tight without having to work.) It'd be great if Olive didn't have severe separation anxiety, if I didn't have to think about when and how I could leave her without our neighbor complaining about her crying. But all of that is secondary.
I have a very good life. For me, it's always sunny in Seattle.