Webster defines bliss as: rapture or ecstasy. Honestly, I never felt that strongly about the word. To me, it was always a sweet, tender blip of happiness that surprised. Kind of like serendipitous moments. I like bliss. Happiness is fleeting, joy is abiding, but bliss is like that bird’s feather that flutters down from the sky and makes you wonder about things like guardian angels. It’s that strange minute where peace, contentment and maybe a dash of color change a hectic day into something memorable. I don’t intentionally seek bliss, it seems to be harder to nail down than contentment, but I love it when it happens. I glance over my shoulder for it after I’ve exhausted the usual chores, and finally sit down for a moment of me time. No, I take that back, anything involving chores can not bring on bliss. Unless, of course, you like laundry and dish-washing. I, on the other hand, get through the chores because I prefer order to chaos, but its not because I love matching endless piles of gym socks. What I do love, and where I usually find bliss, is in nearly silent moments. I have this chair outside that tilts back so you can stare at the sky, or in my case, the leafy panorama of five, big old trees crammed into one small corner of the yard. And, if the wind is gentle and the neighbor’s dog isn’t barking, I can almost always take a book with me, crank back in the chair, and after a few moments feel the bliss slide over me like a warm, ocean tide on a May evening.  I’ve noticed bliss comes in short supply, the pocketful variety. I’ll take it, anyway I can get it.