Yesterday evening was spent, for the most part, wearing a pair of comfy pyjamas and hanging out on my own in what is, quite possibly, my most beloved room in our new, century-old home – my attic bedroom.
I regretfully turned to the last page of one of my current books (the fabulous Let’s Pretend This Never Happened (A Mostly True Memoir) by Jenny Lawson – The Bloggess), then carried on enjoying another (the delightfully helpful Joy Writing by Kenn Amdahl).
I puttered about – dusting and tidying, removing old newspapers and random clutter, putting things in order.
I programmed the new digital remote control and watched a little TV.
I went down to the basement, found our spare DVD player (given to us by friends when they moved), and managed to successfully connect it to our bedroom TV in anticipation of a Pride and Prejudice marathon some other evening.
I listened to the storm outside and the lashing rain smacking against the skylights while inside the ceiling fan turned lazily, pushing through and transforming the warm, still air into a soft, cooling breeze.
I took in the details of the room and dreamed about possible furnishings and accoutrements to make it even more wonderful – shutters for the window, a rocking chair and footstool, a series of low shelves tucked against the sloping walls and filled with favourite books.
And when I couldn’t keep my eyes open another moment longer I shut off the TV, put away my books, and started to relax my mind’s hold on all of the thoughts and plans and dreams that had filled my evening. I basked in the moonlight, warm under the covers, and an almost aching joy and love for this room and our home and our life took hold of my heart as I drifted off to the world of sleep and dreams.