An Occasion You Could Not Imagine

Yesterday was lovely, a perfect day: up early to watch Mr. Polly run a 5k (third overall!), then a Labor Day parade, then delicious sandwiches from our favorite market for lunch, then a two-hour nap for me--because watching my husband race is always exhausting--then puttering around the house, then dinner on the patio at our favorite local restaurant.  We ate under an enormous oak tree as the full moon rose in the east. 

It was a nice pause.  Today both children began art lessons.  Tomorrow Annie begins ballet (aside: why is ballet so stressful?  Hair nets!  Schedules!  Birth certificate required for registration...yes, I'm serious!).  Thursday I'm having an afternoon tea with a sweet friend.  Friday we leave for our next trip.  And we're doing school, housework, and exercising.

And sometimes I take a minute to read a poem.  This one is the poem that resides on my fridge right now. I like to always have one there, and Jane Kenyon is wonderful. 

There's just no accounting for happiness,

or the way it turns up like a prodigal

who comes back to the dust at your feet

having squandered a fortune far away.

And how can you not forgive?

You make a feast in honor of what 

was lost, and take from its place the finest

garment, which you saved for an occasion

you could not imagine, and you weep night and day

to know that you were not abandoned,

that happiness saved its most extreme form

for you alone.

As someone who is consistently surprised at my own happiness, I love this poem.