Monday, September 10, 2012

dear world,

"The shower was now over, and a rainbow above the eastern woods promised a fair evening; so I took my departure."
(Henry David Thoreau, "Baker Farm," Walden)

I'm having a really hard time writing at all right now in my life. My once computer musings have introverted themselves into pages of a journal I keep by my bed. Last night I turned all the lights out and laid down to sleep, but my hot-wired brain kept going so I switched on my lamp and wrote and wrote until I ran out of lines on the page and then could finally sleep. I always intend to type those pre-snooze thoughts the next morning, clean them up for general consumption, share them here maybe, but then the selfish devil inside me says, "No, those are for the paper only" and I have to relent.

I wonder what kinds of things are nurtured when you bottle thoughts like jams and jellies and store them to open later. I'll tell you one thing that happens: shelves and shelves of journals. "And I could write a song a hundred miles long."

I will say this: I am content beyond belief right now. I am happy with who I am. I am happy with the direction my life is taking. I am happy with the decisions I am making day-to-day and the decisions I've made year-to-year, especially the ones I didn't understand in the moment but that have somehow grown important and kind things inside my heart. I am happy with my relationships. I am happy with how I spend my time.

I am happy that today two people talked to me about doing their wedding photography.


And tomorrow is another clean white page, and I get to punch holes in it and turn it into lace. And this hope for the morning brings me cozy thoughts when right now I nestle in my bed with Henry David and a cup of water and ponder the night away.

Seredipitously yours.

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