Having just emerged from a week of a strange blue funk, I’m noticing life’s small pleasures, which have been drifting by unobserved, unappreciated, above my head. A flu shot, itchy allergy-ridden eyes, and new glasses that didn’t quite fit right on the bridge of my nose seem to have been the culprits putting me in this rare blue funk.
But today, I awoke in good humor. On rising, I walked out into the small room adjacent to our bedroom. There, on the single bed, sat our part-Manx cat, Gwendolyn (also known, quite unimaginatively as ‘Kitty’). The soft sound of her purr intensified. She looked up at me, her hopes of being petted obvious in an expectant expression. The feeling was reciprocal: I love to pet her. Her fur is softer than any I’ve ever felt, and her obvious enjoyment of my ministrations doubles my own enjoyment. Eventually I moved on, heading for the bathroom. She followed, purring all the while, hoping for more affection—which was indeed forthcoming. [It must be honestly acknowledged that her hopes of forthcoming food are surely also in her mind, beside her addiction to affection.]
Descending to the main floor, I pass the dining room table, on which sit four baggies of assorted beads, an unexpected gift from my new—and first formal—pen pal (the wife of a much valued mentor in Hawaii who died a year ago). She and I exchange newsy letters, recipes, and occasional small gifts. The contents of the baggies seemed to be roughly sorted by size, but my own system involves sorting by color, so I had earlier begun the (perhaps oddly) engrossing task of dividing these colorful baubles into single-hued piles. I enjoy running my fingers thru the piles of beads. I had delighted in the different colors, shapes, sizes, imagining what I might make from them, as the colors gradually shifted from an undifferentiated, variegated mass to single hues that might form a necklace or bracelet. Passing the piles this morning, still on the table, I remembered my pleasure, and thought about more to come, as I continued this process, and later created something with them—yet another pastime to anticipate.
Moving eventually into the kitchen, I notice the utter brilliance of the orange tithonia blossoms, which I had spread out some days ago over all surfaces in the kitchen and breakfast nook. I had littered our kitchen with them, fearing a frost—freezing temperatures immediately kill tithonia. I wanted to garner as much enjoyment from these beauties as I could, surrounding myself with them one last time this year. Thankfully the freeze was brief enough that the flowers continue to bloom outside as well. Peeking around the edge of a window, beyond our table, sprays of tiny white flowers spew forth from a climbing bush that my husband planted last year. We had anticipated wonderful scents, which he remembered from his childhood. For some reason, the fragrance is far milder than we’d hoped, but these lovely delicate blossoms are candy for the eyes.
I make my morning coffee, something always anticipated with still more pleasure. A bit groggy, I fill the espresso maker’s little cup with coffee grounds, but forget to wait for the green light to come on, the indication that the water is hot enough. At first I convince myself to drink the lukewarm concoction anyway, not to waste the coffee. I remember stories of World War II, when people had to drink coffee substitutes and longed for good coffee. But one taste, and my resolve evaporates. I make another cup, which tastes as good as hoped. I relish the hot, sweet liquid passing over my tongue, gradually filling my body with much-needed caffeine. Virtue loses out to pleasure sometimes. Like petting the cat, drinking good coffee is a cherished pleasure (I like Folgers—not a popular choice among my friends, who disdain my plebeian tastes).
This time alone is also cherished. I write in my journal each morning—checking on my own emotional state, remembering the events and feelings of the day before and anticipating the coming day. I don’t know why I appreciate writing in my journal so much, but it is a major factor in my emotional equilibrium.
Later, after some relaxing conversation with my husband—he reads me excerpts from the news and from Cornell’s magazine, Ezra, as he too drinks his morning coffee (a much fancier variety than mine)—I go upstairs to write to my friend in Hawaii. I respond to her last letter, thank her for the gifts, and tell her about my three grandchildren, as she has just told me about hers. After writing the letter, a communicative pleasure in itself, I turn to my store of stationery, accumulated over the years. Which lovely paper shall I use today? I now know how to adjust the computer software to print almost any size and shape, so I am free to select from many choices. Eventually I choose some paper with pinked edges that I bought a week or so ago as part of a fund raiser. Although the printer eats one of the special sheets, I finally manage to print the first page on the remaining one, completing the letter on regular paper, and stuff it all into the colorful envelope. I select a color—light blue—from my set of fountain pens to sign the letter, choose a special circular return address label with the best of two decorative options (daisies), and choose a nice stamp that fits the personality of the recipient and the colors on the envelope (a passion flower). All these little tasks please me, as I try to make the letter physically attractive, as well as interesting to read.
There is nothing special about these quotidian pleasures; but I welcome back my ability to appreciate them. One wonders why the same events can fill the soul with joy and delight one day, yet fail to elicit such a response another…We human beings are odd ducks.