Though it requires very little to set my course right, the providence of it always gratifies me. Today for example was the perfect storm.  It was an occasion on which all the critical elements of my being were justified, quenched, accommodated and fulfilled. And no doubt favoured and humoured. It began naturally with an early morning rising though an ascent not to the Stoic extent. The recovery of perception started shortly before nine o’clock, representing what had been a full eight-hours of recommended sleep, one which had only been irregularly interrupted by necessity and anxiety if at all.

My immediate rehabilitation was prolonged as it now is by the expiation of the whole and dutiful leisure, a conscious act of indolence yet spirited restoration from a damaged condition. At ¾ a century it requires staging to readjust the mechanism of consciousness, time to add a level of sentience which qualifies as alert. It was an enterprise fully complemented by a torch of cold water and a portion of fragrant hair conditioner. The blouson effect of a white cotton bath sheet buried last night’s history in preparation for the ritual ablutions, staring into the mirror for reflective percipience, attempting to recollect how long it has been, remarking upon the similarities to one’s ancestry, confessing the present, repeating the alchemy of rubbing and scrubbing, overhauling the neglect.

And of course there’s breakfast.  Nothing impedes the breakfast. It is for me the sine qua non.  To this – as in so many, many matters of every prescription and impossible description – I am fully indebted to my long-time and firmly moored partner of uncommonly quiet persuasion and impenetrable deliberation. And it is worth noting, a highly qualified cook in my salty opinion. It started near thirty years ago with Osso Buco after an introductory experiment at the Lincoln Centre in New York City. And thence progressed sophisticatedly to dining on pétoncles and luncheon of sea bass with ample martinis by the fireplace on a blustery Saturday afternoon in the By Ward market when the wind and the clouds swapped white and blue to the inexorable heavens. And now this.  The perfect awakening, a combination of fruit, exotic milk and steel cut oats; followed by the elixir of oil upon fried eggs covered in sharp cheese. The Sacrament of Heaven!

Yesterday’s hangover of youthful buoyancy and beauty amplified the unblemished purity of the moment. But not without a price to pay.  A subsequent deliberation in the parking lot of the grocery store set in motion imperceptibly the liniment of  routine. A tricycle ride upon the flattened concrete surface of the subterranean garage likewise smoothed the surface of my dispute and ignorance. How strangely the nerves within the limbs translate from stiffness to strong thus preserving the nexus of mind and body. Though it was a moderation unaccompanied by the frequency of driving my car (the forecast was a Severe Thunderstorm Watch), I overcame the ritual transition with an uncommon summer afternoon nap of a superlative nature. It was altogether the perfect storm.