eggs + toast + little joys

Sometimes I get disappointed with myself for not being perfect. I am not a perfect wife, a perfect daughter, a perfect friend, a perfect employee, a perfect mama-to-be. And then I remember that there is no such thing as perfect. The only thing that is truly perfect is love. And boy, do I ever love.

My thoughts have been heavy. I have to keep reminding myself, over and over — Slowness remembers and hurry forgets; softness remembers and hardness forgets; surrender remembers and fear forgets.

It’s warmed up here on our little mountain. We set the clocks ahead on Sunday. The days are longer, the sun is brighter. The snow has melted and for the first time since December, we can see the earth again. The winter thaw creates a babbling brook along the dirt road next to our house. Everything whispers — Spring.

Matthew’s mother gave us a gorgeous loaf of sourdough bread last week. I’ve been cutting it up into slices and serving it with soups, sandwiches, and eggs. It’s the little things that make everything so good. Slowing down, the coming of Spring, a pretty loaf of bread. Nothing is perfect, but everything is so good really.