There’s something almost universally appealing to readers about having a comfy chair near a window with a cozy blanket, in a quiet room with a good book.
If you can picture yourself there, I want to suggest a title for the book you’re holding in your hands. So much the better if it’s a rapidly darkening November afternoon, with the window open and a cool, damp breeze flowing in.
I’m on high alert a lot of the time. The past few weeks have been especially bad. When I meditate, or take a walk outside, I can temporarily hit pause on all the stimulation my brain is getting and it settles way down. Then, the volume shoots back up to ten.
The night before the election just a week ago, I was anxious, but resigned. Soon, we would have an answer and we could move on with our lives having a sense of what the next four years would be like.
I wanted to write about how I was feeling at that moment, a written time capsule that I could look back on. But I didn’t.
This Halloween was clear and chilly, and a Saturday. In an alternate universe, it would have been the perfect day for trick-or-treating, but the sidewalks were empty.
I turned 40 earlier this week. It doesn’t feel different from 39.
Our entire family went together to a local park and did a hike, then we went out for ice cream. The hike was dreamy both because we were all there and because the weather and scenery were beautiful.
I had this idea in my head that I was going to write a thoughtful, reflective, and timely post about turning 40, but instead I spent the days leading up to my birthday feeling alternately ambivalent and depressed.
I have always been a bit of a late bloomer. My stinky attitude would have me believe all the ladies I see who seem to be wiser, more confident, and more balanced than I am are just good fakers.
Maybe they really ARE wiser, more confident, and have the secret to life balance, and perhaps they are further along the journey than I am despite the fact that I’m older.
