This is how simple I am:
Three lines full of laundry in a a warm sun which I can fold so neatly and put in the basket and bring in and put away. Clothes and napkins and dishtowels and a tablecloth and towels and washcloths and rags, all so clean and so sweet.
A tiny rose growing in a pot on my deck. The blossoms are limited now. The camellias are done, the iris too. The phlox are about to bloom but not yet, not yet. But here is a shy little rose, pinky-peach. "Bashful and blush," as Shelby said about the colors for her wedding in Steel Magnolias.
Light. And shadow. The older I get, the more fascinated I am by the way these two elements dance and change everything, moment by moment. Would I have noticed this forty years ago? Thirty?
I do not know. I don't think so.
My silly, silly ducks. Oh, Kathleen, thank you for these nasty-water-fouling fowls who talk all day and ask questions and give answers, who travel together as one throughout life.
My garden which I dug in, weeded in, mulched, and planted crowder peas in. Have you ever eaten crowder peas? Food of the fucking gods, I tell you. I hope they make. I pulled more kale, more collards, the last of the lettuces and fed them to the goats next door. I also fertilized my bonsai peppers and eggplants. And now the water is on them and I said my own prayers to the garden gods, kneeling in the dirt, doing all that I could.
The shallots I pulled. They are shiny-papered tiny bulbs of goodness.
My home with doors and windows flung open on this day of the most incredibly temperate weather to let all breezes blow through, along with light, as well as with sound and scent, and which creates a world where the boundaries between outside and in are blurred beautifully.
This creature. Yes. She is just a cat. But oh, how much she has brought to my life. I think that when the dogs died and she came to us, my soul let out a great sigh of relief. I am a woman who needs a cat familiar and now I have one.
The bed where we will rest tonight. Clean sheets, stretched tight. We will be watched over by the spirits of this house whether they are the spirits that came with the heart pine of which it is built or the spirits of those who lived here and died here before us. Or both. Whatever.
I feel a gentleness here that I have never felt in a house before, surrounded by the majestic trees and ferns and flowers, the ones I have planted, the ones which have been here since the only humans were people who hunted with arrows and spears, whose bones I probably live upon.
I so wish my bones could rest here too when I am gone.
Until then, until I die, I am just so happy to live here.