It’s a beautiful day. The air is crisp and clean, and if I had a clothesline I would be hanging out wash. Or that is my fantasy. I wonder how many generations of women have said that, wished for it even, longing for the fresh smell of ivory-coloured sheets and the peace that comes with simple action.
This has been, in ways, a difficult month – so much topsy-turvey careening to a hard stop against a brick wall. But as I listen to the birds singing their spring songs, I know that even brick walls, inevitable as they are, serve a purpose.
They tell us that it is time to stop, at least for a little while, and take in everything that we see and feel: our family; our friendships; the rejuvenating air; the joys of the past; the struggles of the present; the hopes and wishes that we have for the future – the kind that multiply exponentially, like heavy pollen or rose-petal scent or the bouquet from a half-bottle of red wine that has been left on the table long after the conversation has ended and the candles blown out.
Viktor Frankl was right: you cannot know the heartbreaking thrill of a perfect day until you have seen the worst that man, and nature, can do. And when you can sit there in the face of it all, powerless, you understand finally, and fully, the meaning of life.
