I was cleaning out some files the other day and came across some lists that I had made 9 years ago.  They consisted of my favorite things. I am happy to say that I still love many of the same things today.  I thought I would share some of them with you, to get you thinking about your favorite things, some simple pleasures you want to delight in on the last long weekend of the summer. Maybe it’s time to write a list of your own…

Here it goes:

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Unmade beds and late afternoon sun
Showering in the dark
Dark movie cinemas
Short nails painted red
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Really hot coffee
Stockings
Street cars on foggy nights
Tiny cafes

Hands in dirt.

Hands in the dirt
Changing leaves
Roasting garlic
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Accordions
Turtlenecks
My Mother humming

mike dinner
Vietnamese food on a Saturday afternoon
Traveling over the Bloor St. Viaduct
Achy Muscles
Dog’s paws
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Sleeping cats
The smell of campfire
Newspapers in bed
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Jumping
Real butter on toast
Crooked teeth

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Red lipstick
Pumpkin pie
Finding the cool spot in the bed with your feet
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A scrubbed tub
Cold, clear, starry nights
Cuddling
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Biking in the rain
The smell of cut grass
Sea air
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Basil and tomato with olive oil and pepper
Getting up really early
A crisp shirt
Cherry blossoms
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Rubbing your hands over lavender plants.
A balanced cheque book
Incense
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A beautiful shape.
Runner’s high.
Kissing
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Little surprises
Brushed teeth
Ladies in hats
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This Walt Whitman poem.
Miracles
Why, who makes much of a miracle?
As to me, I know of nothing else but miracles,
Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan,
Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky,
Or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge of the water,
Or stand under trees in the woods,
Or talk by day with anyone I love, or sleep in the bed at night with anyone I love,
Or sit at table at dinner with the rest,
Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car,
Or watch honey bees busy around the hive of a summer forenoon,
Or animals feeding in the fields,
Or birds, or the wonderfulness of insects in the air,
Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars shining so quiet and bright,
Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in spring;
These with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles,
The whole referring, yet each distinct and in its place.
To me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle,
Every cubic inch of space is a miracle,
Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the same,
Every foot of the interior swarms with the same.
To me the sea is a continual miracle,
The fishes that swim–the rocks–the motion of the waves–the ships with the men in them,
What stranger miracles are there?
I am taking a long weekend as well so we will see you TUESDAY August 8 with a celebratory post. Curious? See you then.
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