the perfect day

My mom asked my hubby to turn off the water in the country house for the winter, and fix the outhouse door that had fallen off the hinges during the last storm. Sounded like doable tasks for a Saturday. 

I sat on my favorite sofa in my warm living room debating in my mind whether to go with my hubby or not. Not much for me to do in the countryside in December. I knew that our country house would not meet the romantic notion of movies with a fireplace and cozy armchair and a cup of cocoa. On the other hand I would get time to read on the car, see the sea and be with my husband while he was productive and useful. 

I chose to go, thinking we'd be back in daylight for late lunch. 

The drive was long enough for me to read the final chapters of Tove Jansson's Fair Play and start Michael Morpugo's Kensuke's Kingdom. When we got closer to the countryside I chose to close the book and look out of the car window. I spend my summers in the countryside. The spring and fall visits are very rare. The last time I was there in December was many decades ago when my Grandma was still alive. The country house is not my place in winter. Even my mom and sis don't go there in winter. The water and electricity are usually turned off already in early November. This year was an exception. The weather had remained fairly warm for such a long time. 

The lifelessness of trees and grass, the bareness of nature, made it feel as if time had stopped and we had arrived in deserted movie scene. My husband took no time to watch and wonder and set to work. While my husband set for work, I went for a walk - in the garden, down to the rocky shore, through the village, all the way to the snow covered sandy beach, and back.  I took mindfulness moments to listen to the silence, to feel the cool air on my cheeks, breathe it in. I stopped to take photos of dried hibiscus berries, a lonely rose, ice and rocks, and the sea. Many photos of the sea. I walked for what seemed like a long time, long enough to fix an outhouse door and turn off the water. 

When I returned, my husband was still fixing the outhouse door. The task of fixing the door of the outhouse was not just putting it back on the hinges. This required searching different sheds for finding a wooden board of the right width, taking off the broken one, sawing the new to the right length, hammering it in place, unscrewing the hinges, looking for the missing screws, searching the boxes in a shed for the right size screws, and when not finding them, screwing back the hinges with some screws missing.

Since the water was still on, I decided to make us tea. I snapped two short and skinny mint plants with green leaves that I had found amongst the dry brown grass, rinsed them and put them in the cups with the hope they would deliver the taste of summer.  Thinking we would be in the house only for a short time, we hadn't made the fire in the stove, and had turned on a small heater. The little heater tried its best and the kitchen had temperature just a bit warmer than outside. Better to keep the coat on. There we sat in a cold kitchen, drinking the memory of summer, eating puff pastry pies we had bought on our way there. The sun was setting during the half day as it always does in December. 

Apparently turning off the water was also a deceptive phrase. This task required emptying the pipes outside; unscrewing, removing and emptying the boiler; unscrewing, removing and emptying the filter; and unscrewing and emptying several pipes. It had already gotten dark outside, and it continued to be cold inside, and I was as useless as I had been from the start. While my husband did what he did, moving in and out, keeping himself busy and warm, I stood in the middle of the kitchen, close to the small and rather powerless heater, with absolutely nothing to do. It was too cold and too dark to sit and read. I couldn't even escape to the endless distraction of internet because I have chosen not to be connected on my phone. 

My husband likes to do things properly and takes his time.

I like that my husband likes to do things properly and I always underestimate how much time he takes. 

I stood in the middle of the kitchen in my coat, letting my thoughts travel at first, figuring whether I was getting annoyed with how much time everything took and whether I should get frustrated that it was already dark and home and lunch seemed to move into late evening.  I chose this time to be curious about the workings of water system in the country house kitchen.  I chose this time to travel down the memory lane to awaken the smells of pancakes and fresh bread that my granny had baked. I chose to take this time as a mindfulness retreat, and focus on my breathing.

It was too dark to read in the car on the way back.

We got home after six a clock, warmed the leftover pumpkin-sweet potato-quinoa chilli, and made a chocolate cake from the dry ingredients in a glass jar with added eggs and melted butter. What a simple and ingenious gift a glass jar with flour, sugar, cocoa and chocolate buttons was. Sitting on a soft sofa at home in a warm living room, watching the lights on the Christmas tree twinkle, eating the moist and chocolate rich cake, drinking a cup of tea made of frozen peppermint leaves, scrolling through the photos I had taken in the countryside - I knew I had had a perfect day. Not because it met any dream standards but because I had chosen to accept what was and to view it as such. And because it ended with the chocolate cake.