It's not uncommon in Buddhist literature to read something along the lines of, "When the mind is still, the essential perfection of each moment reveals itself."
Two days ago, I shared a brief story about my recent Perfect Day. But lest I inadvertently suggest that I have attained some lasting equanimity about all things as they arise and pass away, let me share this little tidbit: We're in the final days of ski season, a season in which I got to put boards to snow on something like 65 days between December and now, yet I feel pretty cranky about it ending. It still feels much too soon.
Yes, that's right: I am arguing with spring about its not being winter.