As I walk up the garden in warm glowing Autumn sunshine, carrying my basket of apples I’ve just picked from our trees, with the dogs ambling either side of me, I wonder if I’ve just stepped out of a novel. Is it wrong to be so contented with my life, or do I have to keep beating myself up about all the things that are not perfect in the world?

We are broke (on an every day sort of level) and I should be more worried about how we afford things that are peeping over the horizon, but somehow, as I look around my garden, which is tired and blousy now, I can’t muster a negative thought.

The dogs and I walked to Kit Hill earlier (Bob is away with the car) and then I mowed the lawn, and, as my rather mundane day progressed, I thought how lucky I am and how I sincerely wish that everyone could feel like I do today;
loving and loved, belonging, peaceful and content.


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