Here are the things which were different about yesterday: I was so warm, coming home from town, that I had to take my coat off; Ilse and Fliss disappeared to do their prep in the tree house; the fish pie I’d prepared suddenly seemed the wrong dish for such a day.
Sometimes all I need is for things to be different. For John to take a day off work and spend it with me instead, doing nothing more exciting than crossing off a list of household jobs. Being two, instead of my usual one, or six. For the sun to shine all day, uninterrrupted. For a new blouse to wear, or the summer shoes to break out of the cupboard.
This is what I love about this time of year: that there is something different about each and every day. A new seedling pokes its head above the soil, or we find that we want salad in place of soup. Stumbling across that yellow, blooming in the sunlight. Nothing big. Nothing fancy, or expensive, or particularly special. Just a change.— March 16, 1932