Like being in an Impressionist painting

Our friend Anne Marie had us over this evening for a picnic dinner at her place. Anne Marie lives in a small apartment complex across from the Blue Lake cemetery—a small apartment complex with a perfectly charming yard space.
We headed across the tiny creek with trays loaded with food, settled on our picnic blanket and… Enjoyed a light salad with chicken and, to Hannah’s delight, flowers, fresh Brio bread, strawberry lemonade. A spectacular cherry pie—still warm—served with ice cream ended the meal. John said it felt like being in an impressionist painting. A cheery one. With bright colors.
Hannah chased after tadpoles and frogs, Jonah chased after himself, I guess, laughing with glee. How is it that I do not delight in lush green grass, in creeks full of tadpoles, in cold strawberry lemonade and warm cherry pie, in these people--my children, my husband, my friends--all of the time? I’m a cynic, I admit, and I’m rather quick to be bogged down by a messy house, noisy children, not enough time to myself, not enough time with my husband, a nice car we can’t afford to fix, other people, war and rumors of war. Still. It shouldn't be so hard, even on days without picnics.