On happiness (subtitled The Ball Jar)

Flora was a melancholy soul, always keeping busy to avoid feeling sad and thinking that, if she sat still, trouble would somehow come. This was a habit so ingrained it was difficult to shift now. But of course, it is a mistake and made many times. But, maybe, this way madness lies, so let her reflect on her summer garden and, most of all, upon one still life that seemed to have arranged itself in one corner of the kitchen: summer flowers, her grandmother's jug and the Ball preserving jars that refracted sea light across the cool white kitchen. And for that quiet moment, happiness came - stealing upwards from the toes and taking its course.

There is no more to say, but I am sure you will know what she means.

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(And a note - yes I was thinking of Sylvia Plath's The Bell Jar, in the title of today's story.The pictures are all mine and taken yesterday in my kitchen and front garden.)

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