When I was young, I read the book Emily of New Moon by L.M. Montgomery. It was one of those wholesome, girl-on-a-farm-growing-up sort of books, and I thoroughly enjoyed it. (Incidentally, I also was infatuated with Anne of Green Gables by the same author.) One of the things that characterised Emily was what she called "the flash." When "the flash" happened, everything around her appeared to be unbelievably beautiful. She described it as if the curtain veiling the faery world had been pulled back for the briefest of moments.
I don't experience "the flash," of course, but I do have similar moments. Ever now and then I realise that everything is just about perfect. Yesterday evening, I had one of those moments.
I was laying on a beach chair by the lake as the kids propelled themselves around in their neon inner tubes. They were laughing and splashing and yelling, "Blythe, watch this!" and "Hey, Blythe! Blythe! Did you see that??" Of course, I saw it all-- the twirling, the paddling backwards and-- my personal favourite-- the tipping backwards into the water.
We threw the biggest rocks we could into the lake, and watched the explosive splashes. We played "fetch." The moon was slowly coming out, the air was clear, and the sky was blue. During the day, the temperature had spiked in to the nineties (odd for the PNW), but by the evening it had cooled to the mid-seventies or so, and was as pleasent as it comes.
Yes, I think it was pretty near to perfect.