It is the late cusp of the day. My front door is open to golden light and old soft tranquility and not even the slightest breeze. Birdsong is strewn through the peace. It's such a lovely last hour to a lovely sea-scented day.
True, the rooms of my house are hazy with smoke because I burned dinner, but I don't mind. It doesn't spoil the contentment; infact, it some ways it is actually an addition to the contentment: it could be fixed with a new dinner and all the windows opened and no need to get upset. I'm finally learning in my deepening age that very few things warrant getting upset. Why waste this precious spring evening being distressed by a charred pot? I have baking soda to clean it, and a sunset to watch.