She stands at the sink with her hands in warm soapy water and watches the chickadees, sparrows, and a pine grosbeak flutter from tree to tree. They apear to be doing a conscious dance for the delighted woman framed in the window. Then she thinks about something else she wants to do, and impatience pushes her contentment away.

She brings her wandering mind back to the trees, the birds flitting busily about out there, her favourite music coming from the corner of the kitchen. She washes a few plates and glasses, smiles at the sky, stands some forks in a mug after rinsing them, hums, looks out the window again, carries happily on.

Until she begins to see herself taking a walk while the sun is still high, starting a load of laundry while it’s early in the day, digging something from the deep freeze to thaw in time for supper. Her pleasure in the present moment is dampened, then squelched. Will these dishes never be done? They are a relentless burden, keeping her from equally pressing affairs.

Ah, no. They are her opportunity to practise “being here now,” she thinks, and scrubs some pasta off a pot, and watches the free, feathered ones through the glass.