I suppose it’s wrong to say one is ferociously comfortable — the adverb and adjective rather work against each other, don’t they? But every once in a while — once, twice a year if I’m lucky, and generally in the mid to late afternoon, sitting reading in a perfectly quiet house (Paul’s away for the week), I’ll be tugged upright by the most acute sense of contentment. I’m not sure where I stand, anymore, on the spectrum of Faith, but at such moments I revert to a childhood sureness. “God” and “Love” and “Thank you” burble through my consciousness. I breathe; I close my eyes; I smile.
I had such a moment on Sunday afternoon, the wood stove crackling its heat generously into the room. And such a frisson of pleasure I had at the room we’ve created together over the past fifteen years. Books and music and beach stones, paintings and cabinetry and wood-turning by friends, quirky lamps and dog sculptures and tables that were only meant as temporary but have somehow come to “do” . . . you can’t see the grand piano whose lid I don’t open enough, but it links me right back to the first piano I played, a big old Canadian-made upright, stitching my decades together. . . And every house I’ve ever lived in has had windows with a view and these views sometimes form a double exposure over the trees and ocean views I see here. . . .
I think I won’t say another word. Except perhaps to ask if you know the kind of moment I mean. I do hope so — I wish you one, soon.
By the way, I’ve heard that some readers are having trouble leaving comments. If you’re frustrated by whichever portal is currently closing the gate on your message, you could try to send me an email instead: fsproutATgmailDOTcom (except that you substitute @ and . where appropriate, but I’m sure you already know that!)
I know that moment you mean. It is glorious and doesn't happen often enough. I see you have your winter drapes up:-)
Although it's all the more special for being infrequent! And yes, the added cheer of the winter drapes was necessary!
Oh, yes, I know that moment. Contentment and joy combined. Your cozy home is surely a wonderful trigger.
I'm glad you know it too!
What a fantastic room! Your personality and individuality are everywhere! It's hard to figure out what appeals most– the great artwork on the wall, the quirky pendant lights, the wonderful assortment of throw cushions at the window seat… A perfect room to relax, read or knit while looking out to sea. Enjoy every moment you spend there!
Thanks, Vivian! It's certainly not a minimalist's room, but we really like it. . .
Oh, I love that moment. I always think 'and all is right in the world'. I sometimes get that feeling at predictable moments, say watching a sunset with Spouse (and a glass of wine) on our top verandah after a long, busy Sunday; at other times it seems quite random, like when I'm pulling bugs off new growth on one of my plants 🙂 or watching my children have a conversation …
I should add, mine always seem to be in the domestic sphere. Rooms like yours, full of books and memories and art and photographs and much-loved furniture and comfort, are part of what makes me happy. My house is definitely my happy place, even with all its imperfections (like being WAY too small for 4 people!) – I enjoy it when it's full of people for a party, or when it's just me sitting to meditate …
When I think of it, Tiffany, I must agree with you — I don't remember ever experiencing this feeling outside of my own home — not that I can't feel full of contentment or well-being elsewhere, but this perfectly unbidden upwelling. . . . only here.
Yes.Absolutely! My husband & I spent some of August & Half of September on the west coast of Canada ans Alaska. We were holidaying there. We absolutely loved your part ofour world:) .But we live in Western Australia. Poles apart from every aspect of what you wouldbe viewing at this time. But it's home & always has been, always will be I suspect. We would both miss it too much. But our ventures abroad, whilst I loved & enjoyed envery minute, have really made me appreciate my Home. I have found myself smiling quietly at the beauty And so enjoying the solitude. Thankyou for posting.
Pearl
It's true, isn't it, if we're lucky?! We can find beautiful spots while travelling, even spots we return to again and again (as we do with France), but there's something about being at home . . .
Sorry that should have read Your part of the world.
Pearl
Once, at a Tom Petty concert, he asked the crowd, "What if, for ten minutes, •everything• was All Right?" That's the feeling, and I am very glad you have it. This post may reassure you, too, at other times.
Yes — at other times, it's good to have recorded this kind of moment, or at least to remember it . . .
Oh yes, I love those moments.
like grace, aren't they?
The word "well-being" always comes to mind in those moments. I think the oxymoron of ferocious comfort is perfect.
I think I like the "ferocity" because while the comfort comes in/from the domestic and/or quotidian, there's something transcendent about it, it's tinged ever so slightly with awe.
Isn't it great when you have those moments of "everything is as it should be"? I feel that as I lay in bed with a good book. It's perfect!
And I hope you might experience that soon — in difficult years such as yours has been, the feeling is even more welcome. . .
I do experience these moments. Oddly, when one of my deepest pleasures is the company of those I love, they come to me only when I am alone. In company I think I am too attuned to others to be able to hear that upwelling. It is not unlike the way that having the radio on drowns out birdsong.
Yes! Absolutely! I have never experienced this pure suffusion other than when I'm alone — perhaps, as you suggest, it's happening but I can't "hear" it.
A lovely post Mater. I'm sure I could spend hours of contentment in that room. "…stitching my decades together" resonates for me. My decades seem pretty well stitched together now and my attention is turning to the next phase, whatever it brings. Contentment is a wonderful thing. I may just settle into it.
I'm not sure there's ever no more stitching to do — it seems to me increasingly that something will happen that reminds me of something I haven't thought of for decades. . . .and which sheds light forward through the years, somehow. It's an interesting phase, this one. . .
I'm missing my wood stove today with this change in the weather and winds.
Well, we both know you're missing more than your woodstove. . . . stay cozy, even if it means cuddling up in the duvet.