I’ve been thinking about this topic lately. Last night I was reading the latest in my favorite series of books, No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency Series. The book is called The Miracle at Speedy Motors. What is it that I like so much about this series? Well, it is set in Botswana, and having lived in southeastern Africa, I enjoy the memories that are stirred up. Botswana is different in many ways from where I lived in Africa, but not so different in other ways.
But I also like the books, because they are just so all around pleasant. One reviewer said this about them:
Utterly enchanting…It is impossible to come away from an Alexander McCall Smith ‘mystery novel’ without a smile on the lips and warm fuzzies in the heart.”
Happy sigh. What more could I ask for in a story? Happy memories. A smile on my lips. Warm fuzzies in my heart.
Well, none of that has to do with contentment, exactly, except that I’m perfectly content with a good book in my possession. (A good book I hadn’t even been expecting. I went to the library totally unaware there had been a new release in the series and was delightfully caught off guard to discover this one while browsing a display.) And really being content with a good book in hand is nothing to write home about–I’m content because everything is going my way 🙂 Somehow that misses the point, doesn’t it?
But, I have been thinking a lot about contentment lately, and I have a couple of posts, I think, rumbling around inside of my head. While the words for them are still forming, though, I wanted to share this paragraph from my new book, which felt very similar to some of what I’m thinking about with contentment. If the connection doesn’t make sense yet, don’t strain your brain–it’s me, not you! My feelings often make me connect things that might not be very connected. Hopefully, though, I’ll find the words to explain the connection in the days to come. Until then, I leave you with this selection that I found beautifully fitting with my recent thoughts:
Mma Ramotswe turned the van and they had just started back when the first drops of rain began to fall. First there was that smell, that smell of rain, so unlike anything else, but immediately recognisable and enough to make the heart of a dry person soar; for that, thought Mma Ramotswe, is what we Batswana are: dry people, people who can live with dust and dryness but whose hearts dream of rain and water.” (p. 76)