The uncanny ordinary--

Life, what a strange substance, and all woven on the loom of time, which many say does not exist . . .

Take tomorrow, as that should be pleasant enough, being a Saturday. In the morning, be awakened entirely too early by small, demanding animals. That's a constant. Feel cotton-headed and dense. Drink tea and stare at the birds. Bake for the track meet sale later in the day. Tumble three children from bed. Dig around and weed in the jumble of flowers, trying to turn a cottage garden into Eden. Play with words and write a poem about something (last night it was the definition of a foreign word seen on facebook, so clearly it could be most anything.) Go sing John Rutter's "A Clare Benediction" for the funeral of a much-loved old lady. Then dash off to the youngest child's track meet. Cook because the man who likes to cook is out of town at a conference. Talk to him and my mother by the miracle of technology. Commit the daily laundrification. Probably fall asleep over a book. And perhaps all of that interrupted by surprise, for good or for ill.

If every day is a little life where one is born and dies away in a short space, how many days are worth the living? Or how many deserve a good job! at the end . . . Fewer of mine than I should like. Lately I've had the wish for each day to be more shapely, more meaningful--that no day feel, at the close, a gift that was wasted.