The Contentedness of Being

Having one of those Sunday mornings where it’s raining and all one can hear is the muted, muffled drumming of rain.    The sun’s so lazy it’s sleeping in, and despite the hour it’s dark and sleepy outside.  When the mood quiets even the birds and household dogs, and peace rules.

Distant thunder rumbles, the rain softly rattles in the downspouts, and the men living in this house dream on in their beds.

If I had a way to keep memories fresh forever, it would be possible to press this moment now like a flower.  Someday when things were going all wrong I’d take this memory out, and smell the fragrance of peace, contentment, love, and completeness.

No loneliness, no sadness, no hunger, just contentedness of being.

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