Yesterday I had a cookout--fresh corn and kebabs on the grill--and Django Reinhardt on the record player.  Why?  Because it was a Tuesday and I was hungry.  This morning I did yoga to the sunrise and drank coffee on the patio because that's the best time to talk to the birds (and my plants).  There was a moment just now, too, where I just let my mind wander and allowed myself to breathe in the heady aroma of blue sage because I could.

On Thursday, I burned an expensive candle and had a glass of even finer whiskey solely because I enjoyed the searing light of fire within and without; there was no point in waiting for a 'special occasion' (whatever that is, like a fence that limits pleasure to some distant future moment).  Monday was another story--I drank up the stars late into the night because that was as long as it took to finish my conversation with them.  And the blades of grass between my toes today were proof that walking barefoot was as good for my soul as it was for my soles. 

Later I might decide to twirl--in the rain or on the dance floor--for the sheer pleasure of feeling my body move.  And I will most definitely lose track of time at some point in the week; those pesky seconds and minutes dissolving into bliss.  Perhaps it will be while reading--no, napping--under a shady tree, or swimming in the mellow current of summer.  Either way, it will happen on a day just like any other, with no special importance to it except that it is today; or maybe that it is every day, a gentle celebration of fresh mint from the garden, a new book to read, a spontaneous picnic. 

In any case, tomorrow I will marvel at the host of ladybugs making their home in a broom plant overflowing with tiny yellow flowers.  They too seemed to have found their joy in the thin green stalks they climb upon.