A Good Day

Earlier in the week,  I gave myself permission to do whatever I liked. This is advice I frequently dole out to friends but rarely follow myself. I was free to squander time without paying heed to that mean inner voice which is poised and ready at any time of day or (especially) night to remind me that I should be more productive.

Or more attractive. Or more physically fit. Or more assertive. Or more of a risk taker, depending on the day.

But on this day, I allowed myself some simple, spontaneous “sparkles” one after another – fun, random things that seem too frivolous to happen regularly but really, why not? And we’re not talking white water rafting here or jumping out of a plane.

Just tiny pops of languid reading and relaxing.

Light snow was falling most of the day so I made some coffee, and spread marmalade thickly on homemade Irish soda bread: THE best toast. Stanley (our terrier) was visibly surprised when I sat down and quickly clambered up onto the back of the chair à la Pride Rock while the Dresden Cat stealthily lowered himself into a makeshift hammock that the blanket had provided on my lap. I then watched myself go down a literary rabbit-hole via the Poetry Foundation which offers audio commentaries for many poems and stanza by stanza detail from academic experts. I’ll work up to The Waste Land another time but I spent most of the morning with Wallace Stevens. 

It was like the best English class ever – but in my pajamas with a contentedly snoring dog.

I also recalled those times many years ago now, when I was not feeling well enough to go to school but not exactly ill either and how my mum would always let me stay home without questioning. As I happily folded myself in behind the bend of her outstretched legs on the couch, settling in to watch mindless daytime TV (or possibly, The Afternoon Movie) I would be flooded with peace, enveloped in safety: there was also hot sugary tea in a nice cup beside me and a little glass dish of miniature marshmallows with their own cushiony, vanilla sweetness. I marvelled that my mother could do this every single day – and, I am pretty sure that she did, with that scarlet red package of Du Maurier cigarettes close by and certainly without the mean voice that I so willingly supply for myself. (Later, in true MadMen style, she would make two rye and ginger ales ready to sip when my father returned home from work at 5:15pm …)

After an hour or two of reading – back to my own world now and hopefully not in the spirit of atonement – I went on a vacuuming spree in order to tackle the neglected corners of the house which involved sliding under the bed like a sidewinding snake with a crevice tool.

(This kind of nail-biting excitement is why you come to this blog, just admit it …)

The continuing snow made me crave the comfort of cake so I decided to bang out a quick pear and chocolate flan and the house soon smelled warm and sweet as I listened to a spot of Buddhist thought from the always calm and intelligent Tara Brach.

What a pretentious, middle-class brat I sound – there’s that voice again – but I felt so refreshed and expanded somehow.

Such an antidote to the news!

Incidentally, this is the exact opposite of how I feel when I have been scrolling about on social media and have been duped into watching some cheery moron explaining brightly how best to “style” a t-shirt.

[Spoiler Alert: Tuck it in.]

Why do I not spend a day like this more regularly? Going forward, I know I will.

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