When I tried to reflect on my day to a friend, I became inarticulate. Did I have a good Easter? Yes! But then I was forced to account for an experience whose nature did not require me to reflect on its nature, as if I could inhabit a body of water for hours without ever consciously being aware of "swimming." (Do babies feel this way in water? Dogs?). Or it was as if I had been swimming in a wide lake, then suddenly hoisted by a bird into the air and made aware of the water's boundaries or boundedness for the first time.
And people ask about days all the time, but this hoisting (or vaulting?) was different because of the quality of my day. A day whose character and content were so immediate that I felt submerged fully in them.
Were I to list it out, you could examine my words with a microscope, noting the microbes that inhabit them but are not them; you could touch them with a stethoscope for a pulse; you could stack them, file them, or compare them to other words of other days you've had, or heard someone else has had, or could imagine someone having. We could both sort it like that, for likeness. But all for what?
I had a day. (This day)
and did not know until it passed.