Exactly two-thirds into this process, and I feel like I’m only just getting to the heart of my feelings.
Like there were sixty-plus other days of gunk floating at the top that had corroded, and had to be scooped and poured off.
Here it is again — sentences running through my mind all day, translating feelings into words, getting a sense of how I really feel about things. Looking at the world as a writer.
For instance, I’ll tell people all day that having a toddler is “difficult,” but I’m actually seeing that it’s not difficult at all (currently). It’s delightful. Sitting with my daughter fills me up like nothing else. Brushing her hair can be almost a meditative experience. Holding her hand pulls my head out of thinking about myself and allows me to just be in the moment.
Watching her grow is a very satisfying experience; I get the feeling that I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be, doing exactly what I’m supposed to be doing. No doubt how millions of other parents (billions?) have felt throughout time. I enjoy my days at work, but I don’t actually feel alive until I’m home and with my family again.
I know, for others, it’s the opposite. This is simply how it is for me.
For sure, reading so many books this year has helped this process too. So many words! It’s clicked that part of my brain back on.
And even when some days are harder than others, I can shift direction and bring myself back to a feeling of easy happiness.
small life, slow life 