It is the best of days
Some days by sheer fluke or force of will, make up for many of the unremarkable days that is a life of nearly six decades.
An early morning stroll along Tarifa beach, a small town at the southernmost tip of mainland Europe, where I am, in part, the luckiest person in the world to live (then again in the height of August, tourism floods in and we hold our breaths until September and the annual fair) and today the heavy Levante wind is switched off. The beach is perfect. Still solitary in the early hours and the sand soft and supple under my feet.
Breakfast at cafe diez, an americano coffee with half a brown mollete (flat bread roll) drizzled with extra virgin olive oil and covered in fresh blended tomatoes with a basil leaf as its crowning glory – the breakfast of kings in his small slice of heaven on earth.
My nephew, more than thirty years younger makes the time to call his ageing aunt, hands free, on his way home. We chat for more than a hour. His life, my life. The joy of family connection, inspired by desire instead of duty is a wondrous thing.
I write for two hours, lost in my own private world of words and re-establish contact with Rose, no doubt my alter ego at work. I have no idea where this writing will take me but whilst I do write, I am transported to a place where time is of no consequence and focus and passion is total. I don’t do this as often as is good for my soul and cannot say why not, except perhaps to own up to the the fact that writing, like most creation, is hard as hell. I agonise and block out the wailing child in the patio; the happy reveller passing my front door. I am in awe of people who write for a living. What eternal discipline they bring to the empty page.
Last and by no means least, I enjoy tapas in my favourite place. A tinto de verano (summer red) and two tapas. Whatever is the delicacy of the day with a good read on my Kindle. Days do not come more easily than this. I am grateful and receptive for all the love, goodness and abundance in the universe.