You could get smug with the happy pleasure that fills you watching the hummingbirds dart around in their spangled Lucha Libre helmets—the idea is, that of course, the Hummingbird is the god of war revered by the Aztecs. The unconquerable, everywhere-at-once Huitzilopachtli.
And the happy pleasure that the fly catcher has built her nest (again…third year in a row) on top of the porch light and has laid three eggs.
The cactus blossoms are blooming for the third year in a row in pink starlight bursts of floral fireworks. Such happy pleasure.
Not only that, but the Kiwi vine we planted 3 years ago is blossoming for the first time. I wonder if this rule of three kind of happiness was born, like everything human, on the savannas of Africa.
And then there it is again, Robin and Eli’s trifecta of boys we call The Wolf Pack.
And then Noah and Kris’ life of three with Clementine, Aloysius and (who’s a good girl?!!) Ellie, the wonder dog.
This morning in our usual Saturday morning long-form phone chat, child #3, Amelia reported that she’d seen the documentary of Mr. Rogers and had to go to work the next day all puffy eyed because she blubbered her way through the film (along with everyone else in the theatre). This clip has all you need: in the first 30 seconds Fred parsing information and wonder.
It all gets fairly sappy when you start in on the magical thinking of threes, as if the world was made for your very own precious self-centered imagination—but, after all, we’re talking about the mind taking a relaxing a snooze in a deck chair on this cruise-boat of a day, like today, say, a few days before summer.
That in turn, reminds me of a joke, told using the standard tripodal structure of threes the punch line of which is: “Then he took out his lunch and I took out mine.” You haven’t heard it? Just ask…