Sunday I went to Mass and for a hike in Griffith Park and then I came home, crawled between the cool white sheets of my bed, and lay there all afternoon, drinking iced tea, dreaming, and reading. If that is not a foretaste of heaven, I can't imagine what is.
All outside my windows are trees.
"Tranquil foliage that really is lived in, a tranquil gaze discovered in the humblest of eyes, are the artisans of immensity. These images make the world grow, and the summer too. At certain hours poetry gives out waves of calm. From being imagined, calm becomes an emergence of being. It is live a value that dominates, in spite of minor states of being, in spite of a disturbed world. Immensity has been magnified through contemplation. And the contemplative attitude is such a great human value that it confers immensity upon an impression that a psychologist would have every reason to declare ephemeral and special. But poems are human realities; it is not enough to resort to "impressions" in order to explain them. They must be lived in their poetic immensity."
--Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Space
J'habite la tranquillité des feuilles, l’été grandit
(I live in the tranquility of leaves, summer is growing)