“The art of living does not consist in preserving and clinging to a particular mood of happiness, but in allowing happiness to change its form without being disappointed by the change, for happiness, like a child, must be allowed to grow up.”
Sometime this winter, when icicles hang from the eaves and snow piles high on windowsills, I will find myself grateful for this day. As a matter of fact, I'm betting that I'll be thankful in early autumn, when I officially begin my soup making, sauce craving, and winter comfort food craze.
As I flit about the kitchen (clad in warm slippers and flannel pants), adding basil or rosemary or parsley to the bubbling kettles, I'll remember today.
The extreme heat and humidity shall rush to the forefront of my mind and I will recall (with happiness) the day I gathered and harvested my herbs while wiping sweat from my forehead and squinting my eyes from the sun.
I'll think about the little gnats that swarmed around my face, the butterfly who danced on the daisies, and the finches that sang and hopped along the edge of the patio.
Inside the freezer, on the second shelf, my herbs are hibernating, preparing themselves for another time, another season.
And the beauty of it all is that these herbs (chives, oregano, sage, parsley, basil, thyme) began as small seeds, sunning themselves in the warmth of my window.
From spring to winter, the magic continues.