picture perfect.

Soundtrack: Good Man, Josh Ritter in the House M.D. Soundtrack
Audience: Anyone

Picture perfect. No really… what does that mean to you? The waking, the doing and then the resting followed by the sleep. What does that day entail? Have you stopped to think about that recently? Or are you like me and too busy with the right now. What is on “the list?” I have to get cat food at the store on the way home, need to take my phone charger to work, I have a 9 AM meeting that I can’t be late for, I need to feed the cats before heading to Q’s, I better get cat food… Some variation of that is always on loop so, of course, I won’t forget. Wait, what did I need at the store?

All joking aside, the week has just whooshed by, and I had an escape mindset today. After letting my mind wander, I realized I was able to sum up that I want to be a freelance writer and also work with non-profits providing continuous improvement consulting. With that frame-of-mind, I continued about my day. I watered the thought that was planted and let it grow a bit. I decided to will look at MBA-ish programs that focus more on some improvement models or perhaps the people part of the equation. Not the leadership blah-blah jargon, the real improvements that can be done with people. Arrrgh… besides the point. The point is that it was uplifting to dream a little bit. I remember sitting at the table at my grandma’s house. The table was at my shoulders unless I climbed to my knees. This day that I am remembering, she got mail. A new store catalog. It may have been an Oriental Express magazine or Fingerhut. She would pull out a Bic pen for me and one for her – the caps chewed by a young boy that had to stick the ends in my mouth. It was time to “dream.” We would go through the catalogs and circle all of the things that we wanted or liked. We rarely bought anything in the magazine. I mean, how many Snuggie-like items does one need? The point was that it was so much fun to imagine having things, all of the things. Today, the $$$ stops me before I allow a dream to form and I just say I have a bill to pay instead.

Of course, as an adult, the dream would change slightly. I would tend to care more about moments and less about things. Relationships. The dream would be nearer to a picture-perfect day than gadgets and gizmos. It would go something like this…

***

I stir and wake up early. Warm blankets hug my sides and lay loosely on my shoulders. The cool night air draft across my nose. Yawning, I lift my phone to see it is early and a non-work day, I realize with thoughts increasing. I set the phone back down and look to my left to see my partner still sleeping. Then scoot a little closer to her, sharing the warmth. I close my eyes and feel rested but begin to doze. The sun slowly crests the hills in the distance and crawls through the bedroom window shades. Soft shades and treelines highlighted in pink fading to a greyish blue further away. I feel the cold air on my nose again. Awake this time, I lay motionless for a moment. I can smell the coffee from the automatic grinder I remembered to program the night prior. Doughnut Shop, I think. I wish it was a hand-poured cup but the preparedness is persuading. My partner stirs and I stroke her hair. I burrito her side with blankets as I slide out of bed and place a hoodie on with a stocking cap. My cold feet are on the hardwood and my favorite wool socks call my name. “Pick me – pick me!” You know, the kind that almost feels like slippers. Too thick to wear with any regular sized shoe but so comfortable that practicality is of little concern.

Our tiny yard with a wooden fence is out the kitchen window. Pink still dominates the sky. Bob Ross would only need to add “a happy little tree.” The coffee tastes rich and comforting. I turn on the skillet and sizzle butter, then crack a couple of eggs. Oh the smell of butter lifts to my nose. Sunnyside up for me, and slightly more done for her. The toast is a rich orange and brown and the butter spreads evenly. Garlic toasted hashbrowns cook evenly. Golden all the way around with little crunchy pieces mixed in. The orange juice pours with a tiny layer of pulp. Just the right amount to get some texture but not so much that you have to chew the drink. I carry the food up to the bedroom on a large breakfast-in-bed tray for two. I kiss her forehead and she stirs with eagerness for the day. We both sit up and enjoy a farm-fresh egg breakfast. Oh, and there is bacon… Crunchy pieces and soft pieces to everyone’s liking. We eat and enjoy each other’s company.

It’s a comfy pants and hoodie sort of day. We both pause at the large back porch sliding glass door and she backs into me. The coffee is still hot. The hot that warms you with each sip but doesn’t scald your throat. That drinkable hot where steam carries the beans’ aroma to your nostrils. Our two cats arch their backs and rub against our legs. Tiny cat hairs mark their height like stains from water during a flood. The labradoodle must be in the other room still sleeping, I think, and then hear a tiny collar jingle as she strolls in as if to ask “Hey guys – good morning what are you doing?” The pets get a moment of affection and we kiss each other on the cheek. I exhibit a large and obnoxious restful yawn and feel the tiny rush of adrenaline from the caffeine and blood flow. I step outside and feel the wetness from the dew in the air. The grass smells freshly cut and the coolness lays heavy on the land. I thought I saw my breath – can you see it? 

Back inside, I move to the desk which is, of course, by the window. It is oak in color and the real kind of wood. The chair creaks as I seem to wake the timber up, the sound echoing in the still of the house. That real wood sound… and I settle in. Is it breaking? I remind myself of this every time. I open my laptop and the apple illuminates on the black screen. A glow from the desk shines like a beacon in the room. The hot coffee is still steaming while the aroma lingers in the room mixing with antique wood. Then, tiny clicks on the keyboard as the story in my head transforms into black text on the screen. I can hear music in the distance. Q is journaling… or…maybe, knitting. She is playing the playlist. Layers of melody and soothing voices travel throughout the house. There is life again, in the still. The night slowly wanes as the morning clears its throat.

Time passes. Songs change. Letters line up to be words and then words group together to become sentences. Paragraphs mark the time that has passed yet it is a dance and I lose track of it. It does not matter. The coffee has chilled and most of the spoon is visible in the cup now. The chair groans while I scoot back. The move sounds like a tiny horn boldly and assertively announcing my movement. Ping. A text. I feel a vibration in my pocket and know who it is. I casually lift my wrist to read a request for my presence. I mockingly sing lyrics I have paraphrased to one of the songs we both like. Mockingly, I pretend to have a microphone as I bob into the room like I was Sinatra from the Rat Pack. Arms open and fingers pull at the air drawing me in. A hug. The kind where the warmth transfers through the sweatshirts and you can feel the other person’s heartbeat. Strong and lingering.

I stand at the patio door. The sun climbs from behind the horizon and streaks through clouds in the sky. The pink fades into yellowish streams only stopped by dark and ominous clouds. The dew smell fades and the smell of rain appears. The sun slowly disappears with the rolling of a thunderclap. 1, 1000, 2, 1000… Strobe lights fill the sky. The storm dominates the remaining sky and a sharp breeze pulls at the trees. Sounds of pom-poms at a pep rally come from the nodding branches and trees bowing. Spring storms settle in and blanket the grass with heavy beads of water. Instinctively, I extend my arm to the right and pull Q in. We watch the sky dim and dandelion flowering seeds get knocked to the ground. The storm is a symphony of sounds and movement. Each player vigorously playing their part…

She and I move to the couch and open a book. The pages thumbed and the scent of yellowed aged paper layers in the air. Hours pass. Reading. Knitting. Writing. Calendars are away and phones silent. Productivity comes from the words spoken or crafted or the knits and purls on needles. Moments are all we need…

***

So it was a good memory and thought kind of day. There is nothing undoable about it. It isn’t something that we can plan. Something that we can put a pin in, or time block in Outlook. My day doesn’t need tickets to a show or purchases at the store. Most of the things I dream about, I am blessed to already have. The important ones. The beauty is that this picture-perfect day just happened. On its own. What does your day look like? What does your dream look like? Escape the fluorescent lighting, boxed cubicle, monotonous job, tasks, and hectic parental worries. Who and what would fill your day? Don’t place confines on yourself. Take your imaginary paintbrush and whisk away. Make yourself a mental getaway for just a moment. It is beautiful I am sure. I hope by the end, you were able to create your moment. Here’s to that…

*Tips cup to you and then sips tea.* Cheers!

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