This morning I walked over to my balcony door and looked at the sky to watch the clouds. It was overcast but there was still enough light for me to discern minute details in each cloud's formation. Of course, I saw a couple of faces, three scoops of hand-dipped ice cream in a cloud dish, and one of the most majestic things I saw was a group of birds seemingly flying for refuge against a shield of white, blue and grey clouds.
It was beautiful.
My great-grandpa, Leslie James, taught me about simple pleasures. One day when I was louder than usual and getting on his nerves, he told me to get off of the porch, where he was sitting. The only problem was it was raining, but Grandpa didn't care. "Scat!" And because I was scared of him, I ran off of that porch and stood in the rain.
'Now what, Grandpa?"
He looked around and sighed, then said, "Dance." And I did and did and did.
By the time my grandma came to the door and noticed me twirling about soaking wet, it was too late. I didn't want to stop, and cried so hard when she threatened to whip me if I didn't get in the house to dry off.
Grandpa ignited this need I have for simple pleasures like dancing in the rain. For example, a few years ago, I joined a group of teenagers standing beside a huge pool of water, in the rain, and allowed passing cars to splash me. The man I was with at the time, put down his umbrella, walked to his trunk and pulled out blankets for me to wrap up in later, and smiled as he watched me just be me. He confessed that he wish he'd known that type of freedom, but didn't.
I'm not sure why I know it, even crave it, but I do.
During the first snowfall of winter I will find a fresh patch and fall into it. I will wave my arms and legs though not as fast as I did as a child, and make a snow angel. In the fall, I'll find a mound of leaves on a curb and fall into it just to watch gold, red and brown leaves bounce up into the air. And then I'll get up and listen to the sound of dried leaves bristling against my legs and feet.
I love it.
On Sunday mornings in the spring, I love waking up to birds chirping and peeping outside of my window. It makes me expectant for something wonderful to happen.
There are clear nights in the summer when I'll sit on the porch or balcony and stare at the sky. I look for the big and little dippers because that's all I know, and am so happy when I see the star in the north. And if there's a breeze, I just sit still and close my eyes and let it beat against me.
I love ...
Pomegranates. Cracking gum. Belching loudly. Napping while it rains with my hoody pulled over my head. Show tunes. Smelling fresh brewed coffee. A good cold glass of tap water. Walking barefoot. Uncombed hair. Children laughing. Susan Hayward, Natalie Wood, and Angela Bassett movies. Gerbera daisies and white tulips. Singing in the car to the radio. Dancing to Chubb Rock. Watching the sun come up. Eating cherries and green grapes. Smiling until my face hurts. Kissing my uncle and aunt. Talking about nothing. Listening to my thoughts. Wishing. Coloring inside the lines. Moaning when I eat something really good. Watching football. Trying on thousands of dollars of shoes at Saks with no intentions of buying a pair. And eating fried eggs and grits with ketchup.
I really don't require much to be happy. God knows I don't. But there are days when I don't want to live without my simple pleasures. I honestly don't think any woman should. What would we do without them? Who would we be?
Best, Robin
fiftydaystofifty@gmail.com
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