As I write this, it is raining, in that way that it can only rain at the West Coast of Canada in late winter. It is  a committed rain, cold and dense and unremitting. It's Saturday, and I am acutely aware that I have that Saturday feeling. Maybe you know this feeling? It is a kind of quiet bliss. A feeling of being connected, body and mind. It comes with a sense of timelessness, a slowness in the passing of the day, and a certain spaciousness.

I am cosy. I am peaceful. My home is dry and warm. I do not feel rushed, or anxious. What makes this awareness poignant is what I notice sitting behind the awareness. The observer in me saying, 'Wow. It's been awhile since you've had this feeling.'

There is a part of me that wants to grab hold of the Saturday feeling, lock it down, figure out what makes it tick so slowly.  Yet, I know, intuitively, this feeling is elusive. Shy, even. I'm coming at it sideways. Even writing this, I am careful not to startle it away. Rustle it into action, push it toward the to-do list.

I'm puzzling over what brought the Saturday feeling so blessedly to land today. Last night, my hubby and I had a difficult conversation. In part, it had to do with a shared feeling of not having each other's attention, of minds being elsewhere, of small acts of love and validation going unnoticed.  It was tough, but honest and good, and it moved us closer.

This morning I slept in, longer than I have for some time. Typically, I wake early, my brain on fast-forward. Today, as the light crept into our bedroom my hubby asked if I'd like tea in bed. After mumbling something about it being years since I had tea in bed, I fell into a fast and deep slumber, awakening to a tall mug steaming by the bed and my husband slipping out to the gym.

He left behind my laptop and I spent a blissful morning, in bed with tea, writing a newspaper column and letting the words and gratitude tumble together.  A bubble bath and loafing around with cookbooks followed.

I haven't yet cracked the nut of the fleetingness of the Saturday feeling. What makes it come, like hot tea, brimming with its comfort and goodness, and then leave, replaced by urgency and hollow irritation?

I think it might be a simple act of surrender, allowing ourselves to fall away into the rumpled bedsheets, or sleep, or back into love. Going down gracefully in the face of truth and kindness bids and putting down our smartphones and picking up a book.

Resting our bones against the backs of one another, the Saturday feeling is like the weather. It comes to us, then goes.