Being outside. Smelling the ocean & watching the waves roll in. Having one of my pups on my lap. Giving my pony a hug and inhaling that wonderful horse perfume. Talking to my dad. And all of the things you wrote - but I do have a problem remembering to cut my roses, I like to walk by & smell the roses....

It's not a small pleasure, but it's a rare and simple thing: Whenever a feeling of calm washes over me.

Being greeted by my dogs.
When my bluenose gives a full-throated howl.
The smell of my fingers after pinching a bud.
Sunset clouds lighting the scene pink and purple.
Unloading new photographs that are sharply focused.
Whenever my lady gives me a hug from behind.

I love all of your replies! Heartwarming.

Finding a highly religious person reveling to them that I am agnostic. Then I watch them and let them think that they are morally superior then slowly watch them devolve into the scourge that they really are. More of a hobby than a past time.

The touch and loves I give and get from my animals. The warmth of sunlight. The new leaves from my pine trees. The love people share online.

Root beer floats
Assembling a jigsaw puzzle
Thunderstorms
Water moving over rocks in a stream
Nuzzling my puppies
Wind blowing through the trees
Hearing a song from ages past and remembering all the words as if it were yesterday
Saxophones
Watching old episodes of the Carol Burnett Show, seeing Tim Conway bust everyone up laughing as they try to stay in character
Hearing my dog dreaming
Telling bad pins to my daughter
Bowling a strike
The smoothness of freshly shaved legs
Cary Grant movies

Lily's sugar-free chocolate. Mmmmmmm....

Wonderful

The decadent sensory overload that is gently swinging in my hammock, with a light breeze, reading a book, and a cold drink nearby.

I must go down to the woods again, to the lonely trees and the sky,
And all I ask is the tall trees and the moon to see paths by;
And the saplings whip and the wind’s song and the broad leaves shaking,
And a grey mist across a grassy knoll, and a grey dawn breaking.

I must go down to the woods again, for the call of the running hind
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a breezy day with the white clouds flying,
And the foxes play and the badgers hide, and the owl eerily crying.

I must go down to the woods again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the buzzards way and the doves way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when this long trick’s over.