It’s Raining in Baltimore plays in my mind, becoming one with the sound of the persistent rain that has fallen since lunch time.

Hot coffee with home made cinnamon syrup, and a warmed croissant.

A pile of trashy fiction and some health books rented from the City Library.

Being cooked for, because I’ve hurt my finger and I’m not supposed to get the bandage wet.

Street lamps lighting up the rain drops on the windows, as though someone had taken a tube of golden glitter and thrown it at the glass.

Wishing for chocolate, but knowing I’ve had enough for the day, and that the only reason I want it is because it feels good when it melts over my tongue as bad weather prevails. It’s been so long since Summer, that the Winter indulgences and comforts have become a daily habit, as though life were reliant upon them. I can’t remember truly wanting an ice cold drink since we moved here. Creamy hot coffee all the way.

I make the mistake of referencing last summer as being last year, a nod to my northern roots. In fact, it only ended six months ago. The signs of Spring are around. The tree by our bedroom window has gone from leaves budding, to leaves once more providing privacy between us and the neighbours. But the sky stays grey. The rain falls as though the clouds haven’t moved and were 200 feet thick when they arrived last March and are not yet down to the last 2 feet. There are no gaps. The wind is not up tonight though, I note.

For now, I choose to be grateful for homemade cinnamon syrup that we stir into our coffee, to rich it up a little. For a movie so good I watch it twice over in one day, one time with the Director’s commentary making it that little more intimate. For a big bag of grapes to munch on, to keep me away from rustling the waxy paper the wedges of fudge are contained in. I choose to be grateful also, for things on the horizon. For the November subscription magazines to start arriving in my mailbox. For more time away from work. For help with the motivation to write. To actually be writing. And to dream.

“…I am August…” ~ Whitman.

Imagine if you were! I know I wish I could make my every day feel like a late summer afternoon simply by being me…. That would be just fine.

Some days I make sweet iced tea in the afternoon, and we eat fish tacos or similar for dinner. Maybe I’ve been lazing on the sofa too, stretching out my toes in the morning sun. Daydreaming of being by a river, the air perfumed from all the juicy greenery that surrounds… I guess being August is having the feeling you garner from that be your default disposition.

Today though, we have a nice Spring day. We have fresh air flowing through the apartment and I am art journalling for the first time ever, thanks to McCabe! It’s been really good to just get messy.

Also this week, much to Andy’s horror, I discovered that I could stream country music stations over the web! I am apparently behind the rest of the world in finding out about this, but there we go. I was sat at my desk on Wednesday night, and my cursor got curious and tap-tapped the radio function in iTunes, and then…. Voila! A whole new world was opened to me, just like that… One hundred (no less!) country stations await me, at any one time.

This week’s playlist on my iPod is:

> Julianne Hough – That Song in My Head
> Heidi Newfield – Johnny & June
> Danielle Talamini – Pack My Bags
> Carrie Underwood – Wasted
> Dixie Chicks – Taking the Long Way
> Kellie Pickler -Don’t You Know You’re Beautiful
> Miranda Lambert – I Can’t be Bothered
> Brad Paisley – Mud on the Tires
> Dixie Chicks – Favorite Year
> Julianne Hough – My Hallelujah Song

It occurred to me that many of the things I buy, I treasure. Many of the things I partake of, I treasure.

From the necklace Andy bought me some years ago, that I never take off, right through to the American Ziploc bags we picked up last time we passed on through (laugh away, but they are so good! I reuse the bags time after time, I use them to hold all sorts of things, settled in a basket). I treasure the phone calls I have with my Dad every Tuesday night. He makes me laugh without fail, with his stories and expressions.

I have not always been close to my parents. It seems to be a growing thing, especially as I come to realize the gifts they gave me – of growing up on produce sourced from our back garden, of eating freshly prepared meals every day, of being taught good manners and kindness. I went to school across town with families far different from my own. Friends parent’s worried about them visiting me as we lived in a rougher area of town. I worked on the farms surrounding home from early on, then the local newsagent before moving on to being a waitress when I turned 15. My dad would stay up until 1am to come pick me up after my shift. He’d complain I smelled like a fish and chip shop, because one of my last jobs of the night was to wipe a vinegared cloth over the bread plates.

After my first year of university in London, I got a transfer to the University of Sydney for my second year. I signed up for subjects like Local Government in Australia and Land Law in Australia. I got so bored. I wound up moving down the coast, and living there, taking a 3 hour train ride both ways to attend the few lectures I had each week. I had tried to get work in Sydney, but I’d show them my passport with it’s student visa (which allowed for part time employment) and they’d shrug their shoulders and pass it back to me, walking off with some excuse or another. One day, on my way elsewhere from Central Station, I bought a one way ticket to Melbourne for very soon after. I never did go back to university and I never did go back to the Law. My parents have only just now, ten years on, almost forgiven me (I hope). It doesn’t come up so often in conversation now, like it used to come up every time I saw them. I was going to be a Lawyer, and instead I’m a…. Potterer. I potter about doing office work that pays the bills and lets me save some for travel and fun. I potter about making calls to friends abroad. I potter about passing days with a friend who otherwise feels lonely looking after her one year old daughter. I potter about with my camera, and writing for my own amusement. I potter about meeting friends in cafes and restaurants on the weekend, allowing for spontaneity. This weekend, I shall be art journalling. I treasure these days.

One night, at a friends party back in London, I was asked where I’d be and what I’d be doing if anything were possible. The answer was immediate, but surprising for those around me. I imagined myself in Italy, somewhere in the South. I was sweeping the kitchen floor, listening to the local radio station, breathing in the air perfumed from the lemon tree just outside. I felt how I’d treasure that moment.

It’s all so easy to treasure the things which happen once, like a gift or a holiday. I find myself more and more treasuring the things I enjoy day to day. Today I have treasured the sound of the Tui bird outside the bathroom window as I took a shower. A coffee bought for me by a nice colleague. The cubes of Swiss Emmental I put into my salad for lunch. Listening to a new album on my iPod as I copy-typed up mundane routine minutes for a colleague. Andy making Albondigas Soup for dinner, whilst I listened to a streamed country music radio station via iTunes. And the ribbon I reused, which arrived with me as part of a package, to hold my index cards together.

The more clutter I clear, the more time and room I have to enjoy these treasures.

What have you treasured today?

I sit here, on a Saturday night, at my desk – the dining room table. Last week we were in a restaurant with friends, eating good food, laughing. Relating.
It’s a cold, wet, windy night out there. It’s been a very long Winter.
Last night we were awoken every twenty minutes or so, as the rain hit hard against our windows, and the gales jolted our floors.
We had another little earthquake earlier. The clouds had just cleared (making way for another cold night). The sunlight streamed patterns on our wooden floors, and the quake made them dance.
I sit here drinking bourbon. It feels so good.
I’ve not had any in a long time, trying to be good.
I sway between being light and healthy, and taking great comfort in people watching in bars, bourbon in hand. Like I sway between country music and French folk. I love the idea of the quality of life that would come from being clean and hard working. I take great comfort in sitting in diner style cafes. The random places you come upon along the freeway, lights blazing. Or the brasserie you always go to, where the tables are in booths. The comfort, the privacy and the time. The perky waitress or the tired waitress. The watercress soup or the coconut pie.

I have a friend who informs me that my comfort side is just the devil on my shoulder. It’s taking me, away from me. She says this to help me, in the best of intentions. I can see her point, but every now and then, I feel like I need it. It’s like I get to finally put my feet up. I stop with the to-do lists that play on my mind. The to do lists that keep me working, and reading How to Pick a Peach instead of what I really feel like – Straight Up & Dirty. And so I excuse myself, and I take a night off. I’ll write that grocery list in the morning. Right now, it’s me, my bourbon, my wandering mind and I’m listening to:

Gretchen Wilson – The Girl I am
Brad Paisley & Alison Krauss – Whiskey Lullaby
Carrie Underwood – Jesus, Take the Wheel
Faith Hill – Let Me Let Go
Garth Brooks – The Dance
Kelly Willis – What I Deserve
Gretchen Wilson – When I Think About Cheating
Dixie Chicks – Landslide
Trisha Yearwood – Believe Me Baby, I lied
Garth Brooks – Wild as the Wind
Brad Paisley – Somebody Knows You Now
Gretchen Wilson – Come to Bed