The days seemed long this weekend. That doesn’t often happen.
For once there was little planned – one airport pickup, one long early morning run, dinner out with my husband, a walk across the field to the farm to buy salad and eggs, but otherwise a blank diary, an unstructured weekend. It felt strange. The children have just broken up from school – they are tired too and were happy to hang out with friends, lie around and read, do nothing. The weather was warm and sunny and it felt like summer.
I guess I had run out of steam and it felt so good to stop, to lie in the sun, read a novel, blank out the little tasks that I could have been doing. A three in the afternoon yesterday I couldn’t believe that I had hours before me until I had to throw dinner together. An abundance of riches, of time, of birdsong, the sweet smell of hyacinths wafting to me on the back of a light breeze. Slowness and reality. Taking time to see the small things. A true delight.
Why don’t we do this every weekend?