a simple, frugal heart

I can hear birds chirping but I can't see them, only imagine them in big leafy trees protecting little brown nests made of twigs. In my room, sitting on the unmade bed, propped up against the wall looking through the iron bedframe, through the wooden window shades, through their reflection on the glass and I can barely see outside, but I know cars are passing by on their way home from work. "Producers and commuters of steel civilization." Or more likely, men and women who sit behind a computer all day and stare at brightly lit screens. The room fills with light and darkens again as clouds are passing in front of the sun. It's a summer afternoon in early June-- in Los Angeles we're still pushing through the mists, walking through wet sprinkling mornings and driving home in the victorious sun and it's generous heat.

I'm glad to have a large bed to serve as my desk until the rest of the room gets cleaned up and I can move everything else in. All that's missing is the sound of the sea. (Don't focus on what's not there, don't try to change it but accept it, appreciate the slow afternoon, the commuter traffic, the obstructed view and the waning sunlight, she tells herself.)

It's a new goal, or rather an old goal made new again, to force myself into the moment and appreciate it for what it is. (to have a simple and frugal heart). And then to write down those little details that make this moment unlike any other. Right now I appreciate post-shower freshness, a combination of pillows, a book that smells good-- old pages smell sweet, bare feet, wet hair, and the promise of a chicken dinner.

"We stayed silent by the brazier until far into the night. I felt once more how simple and frugal a thing is happiness: a glass of wine, a roast chestnut, a wretched little brazier, the sound of the sea. Nothing else. And all that is required to feel that here and now is happiness is a simple and frugal heart."

Remember.