Some days come pretty close to being perfect, and,
in my experience, they most often happen in May.
It's 10:30 pm, and I just lost a blog post that took me an hour to write, so I'm just going to tell you that, while I am not loving Typepad right now, I am still loving this day and the chorus of a million tree frogs singing outside my window.
So, I'll make a long story short and tell you that this golden, unforgettable 15 hours was made possible by the following: one little girl who woke up on her own and made her bed, pressed coffee, sunshine, blue skies, the return of butterflies, soft dirt, a weed-free veggie garden, bare feet on green grass, lilacs--lots of lilacs, morel mushrooms, asparagus, bacon, a walk down a country road, the anticipation of buttercups, star-shaped sunglasses on freckled noses, migrating birds, the wildflower field guide my sister gave me, wild geraniums, dark cherry petunias, one little girl who took a shower without being reminded, and dark chocolate ganache.
Thank you Lord, Amen
forgot one: pressed flowers found in the pages of old books
"It was so beautiful in the garden, in the late twilight, with a silvery hint of moonrise over the Hill of the Mist. The trees around it . . . were talking to each other as they always did at night. Three little birch trees that lived together in one corner were whispering secrets. The big crimson peonies were blots of darkness in the shadows. The blue-bells along the path trembled with fairy laughter. Some late June lilies starred the grass at the foot of the garden: the columbines danced: the white lilac at the gate flung passing breaths of fragrance on the dewy air.
'Oh, I've got such a lovely home,' breathed Pat, clasping her hands. 'It's such a nice friendly house. Nobody . . . nobody. . . has such a lovely home. I'd just like to hug it.'" -- Pat of Silverbush, L.M. Montgomery