I'm sitting in my lounge room. A mug of steaming tea sits next to a hot cross bun with butter melting into it. The room is filled with dappled golden light as the afternoon sun streams through the autumn leaves of the tree outside the window. The house is clean and tidy, chores are done, even the ones like painting my toe nails. Opera is playing softly in the background, along with the distant noises of S's computer game. The room is warm and bright and comfortable. My novel sits open on the arm of the couch. Our only commitment is to attend an engagement party in a few hours.
This is what contentment feels like and it feels pretty darn wonderful.