Yesterday afternoon, the sun shone, birds sang, the neighbour cat slept curled up in the sun on the deck (right next to the miraculously-surviving marjoram). Kelley was off running a non-profit board meeting. I decided to take a couple of hours and do something frivolous. I settled down with a cup of tea to watch Final Countdown.
This film is an old favourite of mine. But I generally forget it exists until every now and again Netflix or some other recommendation engine suggests it for my viewing pleasure. Kirk Douglas, bless him, looked a little bit too old, even in 1980, to play the part of an active duty naval captain. Martin Sheen was unbelievably young and fresh, and of course Katherine Ross didn't have nearly enough to do. The whole thing is basically lovingly detailed military hardware porn, but I like it anyway; I find it soothing.
So, I was watching the film, and enjoying it, but I had to keep pausing. Oh, the film was its usual reliable self, but I wasn't: I was brimming with joy. It kept threatening to spill over. Eventually I had to go outside in the glittering sunshine and just revel in the world: the bare trees in the ravine tangled with light, the scent of green things pushing through the winter dirt, the dusty softness of the cat's fur...
I beamed benevolently at my domain and felt glad to be alive.
On Friday I had some news that makes me feel that all is right with the world. I'm not at liberty to share it yet, but hopefully I can next week. It's satisfying and gratifying news, the kind of thing that makes me feel that my life is full of grace, that I'm walking with the right people in the right direction at the right pace.
I've been grinning so hard my face hurts. I'm smiling still.
