The first time I stepped foot in the Downey City Library, I couldn’t believe my eyes.
Shelf after shelf was filled with books just waiting to be picked up and devoured, and all you had to do was show the woman working at the counter a piece of plastic? I felt as though I had truly found heaven on Earth. I would load up my book bag with all kinds of stories, read them all, and return so I could repeat the process all over again.
It is early spring, and it’s raining ferociously.
Beyond the raindrops dotting my window the crown of a cotton wood slaps in the wind. I feel crampy but I am happy to have a warm spot to curl up with this pain and a glowing light to read by. My toes are toasty under the duvet. From my cushy perch I watch the daytime storm. The raindrops cling to the window pane, then glide down whenever new ones bump them off. The window is pushed up a little and through the opening I hear the giant tree swoosh and the occasional rain spatter. I can smell the clarity and freshness the wet brings to the air outside.
Certain sights send my heart soaring, but they’re not ones you’d expect.
I like clutter. I’m not talking the “I should be on an episode of Hoarders” clutter, but the kind that is proof of a life being lived. Whenever I look around a home – whether it is mine or a dear friend’s – these messes always call out to me and fill me with warmth and joy.
Slightly sinful, like eating a piece of fine chocolate before taking my vitamins.
Or checking something off my long “To Do” list before I have actually accomplished the task. Or going grocery shopping and deciding to treat myself to a leisurely lunch before going home. Only slightly sinful. Or should I call it “luxurious”? An act of self-care, for after all, the days have been busy, far too busy, and I deserve this.