All the Time in the World

Home is a place where there is all the time in the world.

Time to sit quietly with a cup of coffee and look out at misty morning fields beyond the lawn I mowed yesterday when the ground was dry,

Time to pick flowers and arrange them in a vase without thinking about the invasive species springing up in every garden bed,

Time to cook delicious meals in my perfectly clean kitchen with ingredients from the garden or from the farmer’s market I never seem to get to,

Time to read all the books on my reading list including the self-help books, the biographies, the histories, the poetry, the serious novels, and the trashy romances without feeling any guilt.

Time to watch the dog happily race around the yard rather than vacuuming his hair off of every surface and the ceiling fan while wondering how it gets to be eight feet off the ground,

Time where no one is sick, about to be sick, complaining, about to complain, stuck in traffic, about to be stuck in traffic, angry, about to be angry, tired, about to be exhausted,

Time to start a fire in the woodstove in which, for weeks upon weeks, no birds have fallen down the pipe and are in the firebox awaiting release through the French doors,

Time to take a hot bath with a glass of red wine nearby and my favorite tune playing in the background, soft flannel pajamas and a towel warming on the radiator,

Time to sleep with big fluffy pillows and a blanket that is never too hot or too cold, in just-laundered sheets hung out to dry on a perfect summer day with the aromatic scent of lavender still clinging to them,

Home is a place where there is time to feel gratitude for the coffee, the field, the flowers,

For enough food, and the pans in which to cook it,

For dogs and ceiling fans,

For wood and birds,

For health, music, wine, and hot running water,

For sheets, blankets, and beds,

For a roof overhead.

At least for gratitude, there is time.