the hour after waking

most days i couldn't tell you two things about happiness other than sometimes i am, sometimes i'm not.

sometimes it's there. sometimes it's not.

but this morning, this morning happiness was the quick walk to the corner caffe. the white lunch bag with the bagel-and-egg sandwich. the plastic sip-cup of orange juice. this morning happiness was the quiet apartment and a song on repeat. it was the forgiveness i granted myself for the unmade bed and messy floor. the notion that everything--every action, every thought, every sideways glance is a prayer. distilled down, all is prayer, and i am changed by that. that thought, that knowledge, that eternal and ever-reaching love changes me. this morning happiness was the not-so-gentle sense that everything will work out. the turmoil of excitement sitting pit of stomach for a reason that i am not yet conscious of.

this morning happiness was the hour after waking. when the world was mine and mine alone. and there was no fear. only love. in every action. love of waking, despite exhaustion. love of taking the elevator, and studying the windows across the street. love of feeding my body. of taking this suspended time before the day catapults forward and staking a claim.

the tin atop my desk

there is a tine atop my desk filled with coffee-stained scraps, unfinished lists, scribbles of things i felt the call to remember.

this tin--well, the contents of this tin, might be my most prized possession.

it is random and chaotic and has absolutely no rhyme or reason, but it is important. to me, it is important.

it is a memory box.

i pulled it out the other day, took to leafing through the bits and pieces, scratched out lines that i felt i had properly tended to, circled words and phrases i wanted expand upn.

and i came across a list from november.

november was hard. the fall was absolutely hard this past year.

it was a list of the things i did one day when the going was particularly rough:

i slept with the humidifier on. ordered the books from amazon i'd been wanting. ordered some skirts from asos. woke early. i showered with my new body scrub. took the time to use lotion after getting out. i made sure my phone was fully charged. i ate a nourishing breakfast of oatmeal and flax seeds and slivered almonds. i scrubbed the mold from the shower curtain.

an innocuous list. not terribly exciting. someone else might come upon and wonder why i had thought to save it.

well, because on that day, when i was feeling so blue, each of those things was prefaced with i love myself enough that...

even at the lowest, even feeling blue and unworthy, and terribly sad, there came the thought:

i love myself enough to wash the shower curtain because i deserve to live in a clean home. 

i love myself enough to eat a hearty breakfast because my body deserves that much. 

i did the things i didn't feel like doing, because the larger, better part of me knew i deserved them.

it was a list of my successes that day. short and simple and not terribly interesting. but hugely triumphant, for me a triumph of the little odds and ends that keep one afloat and lead to that delicious territory in which happiness sings.

i believe...

in stemless wine glasses. in the feel of the bowl in my palm. i believe in white wine. sauvignon blanc, of the new zealand persuasion, imbibed barefoot in the kitchen--vegetables roasting in the oven.

i believe in men who can wear a sweaters. in over-sized oxfords and penny loafers. that cauliflower is the most interesting and versatile vegetable out there. that truffle oil pairs nicely with almost anything worth having (popcorn).

i believe in laughter and big, rolling tears--the need for both, the importance of of both, the beauty of both.

i believe all things aspire to music.

i am learning that a lease hardly ends the moment you are ready to leave. and so a shuffle-step ensues. of learning to live around those things that elicit frustration and unease. and that sometimes an expansive room and a jaw-dropping view are not enough to tether one to a place.

i believe in buoyancy. in the calm that comes from dusting. or reading. or long, hot baths. that we've all failed. and we're all flawed. and that happiness must be found on one's own. separate of anything or anyone else. because everything ends, eventually, everything ends. and most things, given enough time, enough space, enough heaven-sent perspective reveal themselves as blessings.

i believe that no gift is greater than that of sitting in silence and listening. really listening. and that we get to choose our friends. and as we grow and get older, discernment is vital.

i believe in peanut butter. an on an intellectual-level i believe in peanut butter in moderation. but on an experiential level i only believe in peanut butter in moderation when it's already too late.

i believe in the attempt. in the leap. and that things happen the very moment you think they never will--the very moment you give into that, accept that, make peace with that (easier said than done).

i believe in the return. in coming back. in coming home, wherever home may be.


image.

the swell and the breath.

i've never really been of the belief that happiness is a choice.

there was that one summer i went around paying lip-service to it--to the belief. that one summer i wanted so desperately for it to be true that need eclipsed sense and i wore the phrase heavy around my neck.

i should clarify.

it's not that i don't think happiness a choice, it's that i think the choosing only goes so far.

it's part choice, part fight,  part smidge of luck, some indeterminate amount of divinity, a hell-of-a-lot of hard work, part ritual, part mystery, part getting out of bed in the morning. and when all is said and done, you offer those things up. like a prayer, you offer them up. and then you wait. you wait to see if they're enough.

because the blue is big and the blue is deep.

and some days, some weeks, some indeterminate stretches of time, they're not .

and sadness swells and breathes like an out-of-tune accordion.

i watched it approach this go round. watched as it appeared on the lip of the horizon. watched as it slowly, steadily, hurtled toward me. and i got out of bed each morning, and i payed homage to the ritual and the mystery, and i had my morning coffee, but the sadness took hold.

that hauntingly familiar sadness filled and unfurled. settled in.

both hollowing and hallowing is that blue.

and in the space it created, i with flailing arms and pitiable grace, groped for meaning.

two days ago, on the train, i began to cry. while reading a short essay about a father's love for his son, i wept.

i wept not because i was sad but because the words were beautiful and simple and wholly solvent.

and in doing so, in weeping, there was a thought:

here i am.

here i am, the girl moved to tears by the love a father not even my own.

and the meaning--the reason for this stretch of time--while still unknown, is somewhere in there--there, in that moment.

that is what is known, the boundaries of this swath: the reading of an essay on a train. and the human response.

and for now that is solace enough. for now, that is the salve that will heal.

filling myself in the morning.

There are days I drop words of comfort on myself like falling leaves and remember that it is enough to be taken care of by myself. 


Brian Andreas

i was reading the words of brian andreas when i wrote this. i think part of the secret of success in life is to find those--those in your life and immediate circle of friends, as well as poets and musicians and artists--find those people that speak to the very deepest parts of yourself and cultivate those friendships, those affairs. cultivate a taste that no one can question--that is yours--fill yourself up with that love.

i'm realizing i'm a better person when i begin the day with oatmeal, some really good music (lately, the tallest man on earth) and the words of someone so much smarter than myself (like brian andreas).

remember when a few weeks back i posted about happiness and asked that you all might help me make a list of tangible things to pull us from that place of funk? well yesterday, this one was added:

i am great. i need nothing but myself to make me happy. 

words of comfort, dropping like leaves, indeed. 

eight words.

i was walking across the park two mornings ago. the air warm, sticky--battling off fall's advance.

i shuffled along the cobblestones lining central park south lost in thought--lost in a mess of thoughts, a tangle of half-formed, ill-informed notions, no one clear or strong. and i was swimming. taking laps in the discomfort of it all when one surfaced, thrummed up and through. came out before i even knew what was what was happening.

clear as day and eight words.

it was a prayer.

God, grant me the courage to be happy. 


and from my body there went a little bit of air. oh. so that's my great wish. the courage to be happy. 


i didn't pray for happiness, didn't ask for the thing itself. my plea was for the courage.

the courage to pursue happiness.

sadness is known territory. it is a settling back on one's heel. it is a falling inward that comes naturally and takes little to no work. that's not entirely true, it takes a great deal of work, but the work is easy and deceptively alluring.

happiness, well, happiness demands that i be bold. demands that i say yes (most especially when i don't want to). it demands that i value myself enough to feel worthy of happiness.

ay, there's the rub. there's the tricky, unsettling part: it demands that i value myself enough to feel worthy of happiness. why is that so hard, to say, i am worth fighting for? this good thing, it's okay that i want it. and it's okay that i might get it. 


the prayer, that monday morning prayer, was an answer, an affirmation in and of itself. it was illumination.

the courage to be happy. fight for happiness.

but in riding the train home last night, clinging to my little prayer, there came a bit more.

relax into it.

fight for happiness. be bold. say yes. and then relax into it. ride the wave. recognize that this thing you think is terrifying might actually be thrilling. and you'll look back in ten years and wonder where that feeling went--that one that you're fighting so hard against right now--and you'll find yourself praying for a way to get it back. imagine that. so enjoy it. live in it. revel in the unknown and uncertain and the delicious discomfort of it.

and know that you're worth it.







(post script: know that in reading this over i started to cry. and i'm not entirely sure why. perhaps because as true as i know this all to be, there are moments where it is so very hard. to fight and not know and not understand why what's happening is happening. life is hard, you know?).

on forcing one's self to look up. and the fight that ensues.

i saw a mouse on friday night. a live one.

i was sitting in the living room watching dateline's lived to tell the tale when something caught my eye.

a mouse. moving.

i have dealt with every kind of bug situation since moving to new york. ants and roaches, bed bugs and larvae, maggots and dead pigeons (those two were related, as it turns out).

but not a mouse. not. a. live. mouse.

so i sat on the couch and willed the thing to go away. but just as i began to relax, it thought the coast clear and would attempt to run from the hallway to the kitchen (food!) and i would let out a squeal and back it would go.

you see, i was a little undone by this wee of the mouse. but that poor mouse was absolutely terrified of me--this notion upset me all the more.

and so i began to cry. not too much, but enough to know that i wasn't really crying because of the mouse.

something bigger was at play here.

and to some extent i know what that something is, but also i haven't a bloody clue and how is that possible?

i'm pretty sure it has to do with shifting terrain and the sense that at any moment--should i make the decision--my world will open wide. and there will be light. or absolute darkness. or something in between.

{ahhh, that familiar territory of the unknown i so adore}.

but back to the mouse. so there i was: crying. legs pulled up under me on the couch. friday night. dateline on the television. and i made a decision.

i did what any manhattan-dwelling single-woman in her mid-twenties (actually, let's take a moment to clarify that, shall we? mid-twenties. not late-twenties. mid. MID-TWENTIES. got it? okay) who's home alone on a friday night would do: i ran to the bathroom, drew a bath, and locked myself in there. mouse be damned.

and when i finally emerged, a little bit cleaner and a little bit calmer i clomped about the apartment in flip-flops, trying to scare the thing back to wherever it had come from. out of site. out of mind.

i haven't seen it since. knock on wood.

more worrisome than the mouse is the nagging sense that i'm not feeling totally well--the tears brought on by something bigger than myself.

that old sadness creeping in.

sleeping a little bit more than usual. eating a little bit more than usual (and by a little bit, i mean, a lot).

it's always a humbling experience to find myself face to face with the eating disorder once more. mostly because there are things you forget--experiences and moments and memories your body protects you from. like how you sometimes remain as still as possible so as to not feel yourself in a body that is just a little bit bigger and a little bit less yours.

but then there are moments that pull you out. in the form of a kind boy with big eyes who's far more interesting than the burrito before you, or a night out at a bar in chicago that words will never fully do justice, or the man who wants to kiss you even when you're wearing that old, navy blue dress you only pull out when you feel you need both a little more coverage and a little more breathing room (i have an inkling he hasn't a clue about the dress. and even if he did, he wouldn't really care).

i know enough to know that this steep pendulum swing between being just fine and ever, so off-kilter is always--without a doubt--the period of the most growth. i come out better for it. and as a very lovely friend said to me the other day, it always passes. and there is such comfort in that. 




happiness.

it was at a slip of a table at a restaurant in midtown west four years ago that a conversation took place. happiness is a choice. that's what we settled on, circled around. it's a choice. i can't tell you how many times i've returned to that place, that time, that thought. turned those words over in my hands, swallowed them whole and felt them burning at the pit of my stomach.

but then just recently i came across the wise words of ayn rand:

Learn to value yourself, which means: fight for your happiness. 


fight for your happiness. don't just choose it, fight for it. somehow that seems more apt. the actor in me understands that: the difference between those two verbs is an intensity of action. and the more active the verb, the more interesting the choice.

fight for your happiness. and value yourself. of course.

easier said than done, but an exciting proposition no?

i read an article in the huffington post this morning about what makes a person happy, really happy. and how mostly it's the small things.

and lord knows i've blogged about this before. (here and here, most recently).

but because right now i'm feeling a bit like i really need a tangible list of weapons with which to fight i want to include an addendum to my previous cocktail for happiness.






so here goes. addendum. (other things that make me happy. in no particular order)...

when my father sends me clippings from the new york times. (and they arrive the old-fashioned-way: posted mail).

speaking of my father, when i look down at my wallet--my absolute mess of a wallet and i know in that moment--in that absolute instant that i am actually my father's daughter. (i'm not daddy's little girl. never have been, never will be, because i am my father. i am his daughter, for better or worse, i am his child--nervous stomach, messy wallet and all).

when my parents do something--have a little argument, make coy comments, and i am reminded that even after all this time, they still love each other enough to poke fun and be willing to laugh.

always having a set of concert tickets in the little, white box atop my dresser. (someday i'll write about this year in which i became bold simply by listening to really good music).

pretty bowls. dried lavender. a long, slow brunch. getting dressed up--from the shower to the makeup to properly chosen under-garments (note to self: rid drawer of that pair of bridget jones-esque underwear {you know the pair, the terrible control top pair that is only okay when seen by no one but herself {actually, even then, it's questionable}) .

turning the subway into a movable cafe with a to-go latte in one hand and good book in the other. pulling the dirty clothes off my reading chair just long enough to actually read in it (a novel idea!). a good pun. the weight that is lifted the moment i finish my laundry. the promise of a good first-date. a really good literary illusion.





i gave myself two goals this week--two tangible things to pull myself from that metaphorical couch on which i sit, legs folded, afraid of a mouse for goodness' sake!

1. to try a new recipe each day. and 2. to lug a camera everywhere. that's it. that's all. a goal. and a gift to myself.

so do tell, won't you. what are the tangibles you pull out? what are your happiness triggers? i want to add to the list, make a communal one from which we call all draw...a starting place from which to fight for happiness.




(post script: happy tuesday).

illumination.

i went out with a friend recently, one i haven't seen in ages--and by ages i mean years. it had been years. whole lives had passed between our last meeting. we went to a posh restaurant in the meat-packing district--one of those places that people say you simply must go when in manhattan. the girl who sat us wore a black dress, red lipstick, and a pill-box hat. the waiter spoke with a heavy french accent. we sat outside, at a tiny slip of a table. my dress tugged on my neck as i tried to find a comfortable (and modest) way to sit in the small folding chair. there was a garden across the street--with a large wooden table and sunflowers atop it. and the way the sun hit the stones of the patio caught my breath in my mouth.

there is always the moment, with old friends, when i must explain what i'm doing in this life.

no acting? why not? what then? writing? what kind of writing? and my answers become tedious and often vague because to answer them all well and truthfully and fully would be a whole (and pardon the language that's about to come) shit-storm of information. and some things are best unraveled slowly and carefully. so i gave some sort of (or i thought so) coy look and said, i've been learning how to be happy. i've figured out happiness for myself. and he looked at me incredulously and said, really, you figured that out? 


it's a bold statement. to say i've figured it out. i know. but i think in a lot of ways, i have.

i smiled, looked down at my latte (what else) and said, yeah, sort of, it starts with this (the latte). and a clean room--a clean room is essential to my happiness. 


i have a whole list of things. red lipstick. hoop earrings. a camera around my neck. live music. late-night conversations with my father. riding in the car beside my mother. trips to boston. sitting next to strangers on a bus. girlfriends that refuse to deal with nonsense. photo albums. any book by pat conroy (with the exception of south of broad--not mr. conroy's finest). living through fear. doing what i once thought impossible. the list is endless. or at least, that's the hope, that it should be never-ending.

but the list is only a sliver. i think what i've figured out is this: everything passes. and sadness does not negate happiness--it sometimes eclipses it, sometimes not. the two can live side-by-side. they can co-exist. there is a sadness in me this morning, as i write this, but that is not to say i'm not happy.

it's just that happiness is ever-moving and ever-changing and all i can do is be open to the possibility that every-once-in-a-while when i least expect it, i'll be so lucky to have it move through me and around me--to fill me and live there before it continues on.

do i have happiness figured out? as much as i can, right now. yes, i think so.

i've been feeling weary of my upcoming 26th birthday because i feel i've accomplished so little. i'm so near a number and so far away from any expectations i had for my life at this point. but realizing this last saturday morning that a little piece of happiness is mine, knowing i've just a wee of a handle on it? well, that's not so bad for a twenty-five year old nearing twenty-six, is it?

when i start to get sad,

the "to be continued" part of yesterday's post.

i got the tree today. from my canadian tree farmer. just over the hill.

i walked home hugging the bundle close against my chest--my stomach. the wind whipping off the hudson burning my exposed hands. i nestled into the green and felt safe, warm.

as i looked around my room yesterday, it struck me that the only thing missing was a christmas tree. for 'tis the season and there's nothing i enjoy so much as the scent of pine and the twinkle of lights.


the thing about this summer is that there was a point when i felt stripped of all freedoms. it was no one's fault. not my own. not that of those around me--in fact i will never forget the goodwill and kindness of many--just a strange, unfortunate congruence of events.

i had no way to get from here to there. no room of my own. no space to stake a claim to and declare as private. i was constantly exposed, without the needed escape. so i started taking showers. often. because those few minutes with the water running down and washing me clean were mine and mine alone. i would then take the time to dry my hair (not something i usually enjoy) because it allowed me to stretch the minutes in that tiny, enclosed space where no one could follow.

it was a lesson in returning to the basics. in finding the great pleasure in the simplest of things. many an afternoon found me holding a warm coffee mug. i don't think i ever got past two sips into the thing--i simply wanted it for the warmth between my hands: a universe unto itself, an opening of space in which to seek solace.

perhaps this is why my room, more than ever before, has new meaning--new importance. why i was so struck in the second reading of eat, pray, love by liz gilbert's transformation of her apartment into something of a hospice. why i now take frequent baths--remaining in the water just long enough to soak myself warm. or indulge in hot cocoa late in the evening. perhaps this is why i finally bought a humidifier after years of putting it off due to expense. or why i now can justify fresh flowers every two weeks. why when the friends and family anthropologie sale happened this last go-round i bought pillows and candles as opposed to blouses and bowls. why for christmas i'm asking for a bed skirt (and maybe a new window treatment?).


sometimes it all seems so silly and frivolous--the import i place on such things--how vital they are to my existence.

but on this morning i'm not gonna worry too much about that.

because on this morning i'll sit in my corner, read my book, and allow scent of candles and fresh pine to fill me.

for christmas is coming and i have found a home.

making a home from a room.

this morning i woke early.

knowing the wee hours were the only ones i could claim as my own today i was determined to enjoy them.  so i slipped out of bed despite exhaustion, brewed the customary cup of coffee, and retreated to my room where i ever so slightly cracked the window--oh for a light breeze to combat that unruly, but always powerful radiator!

i made the bed, lit the warm gingerbread candle i got just before thanksgiving when i feared i was going to need extra help getting into the christmas spirit, and then returned to the kitchen to pour the freshly-brewed coffee. back in my room, i set the mug on the window ledge and plopped into my reading chair.

peace. silence. stillness.

i looked around.

from this little corner my bookshelf looms tall. i see the many books and pictures and think to myself that if my life came down to two things these might just be it--books and pictures. which really means that my life--as of yet--comes down to one thing: stories.

directly diagonal is my worn, black desk. the mirror sits on it, leaning against the wall--it fell the day before i left for colorado and i've yet to put it back. in fact, i might just leave it there. i like it. perched atop is a strung, exposed time-capsule: my coffee filter pom-poms, childhood photos, birthday cards and the like.

next to my bed is the humidifier i finally broke down and got when i was sick for the fourth time this year. it is lovely. its cool breeze lulls me to sleep at night, nourishes my skin and throat--compensates for what that aforementioned radiator takes away.

i look next to me: my mug sits on the windowsill. the steam and winter wind mingle in dance. it is beautiful, lovely to watch, and i have the though that this can't be good for the coffee--making it cold--but it's such a miraculous little sight to behold that i can't bring myself to move it. beauty trumps taste today.

to be continued...

furniture as stability.

i got a bed when i turned fifteen.

my parents said something like, we're getting you a bed for you birthday. and i said, um, okay.

and that was that.

i remember going to pick it out. it was a cool, autumn morning in houston. and there in the eddie bauer home store (sadly,  no longer in existence) was the four-postered thing of beauty. light wood. simple. elegant and rustic all at once. and it was love.

i believe in love at first sight. because that's how it was with me and that bed.

i would dive into it at night--towering off the ground it demanded a running start. i'd lie right-smack-dab in the middle and admire the gentle curve of the foot-board, the sturdy posts reaching upwards all around me.

in the morning i'd carefully make the bed, place my head down on the freshly-smoothed covers, whisper sweet-nothings, and assure it of my imminent return that evening. and off to school i'd reluctantly go.

for me that bed is now a talisman of sorts. or rather a symbol--a goal. that four-postered sleeping wonderland is nothing less than stability made tangible.

you see, it is large. not easily schlepped from one nyc apartment to another. and because of it's size it will cost a pretty penny to get it here. or there. or wherever i end up. in short, care of my bed will require funds and continuity of location. and oh i long for funds and continuity of location!

but for now the bed remains. at the most constant home i have. 2,000 miles away.

and now i am twenty-five. and now ten years have passed. and the furniture gods have gifted me once again. i have a reading chair. for my twenty-fifth birthday i was given a reading chair.

i asked for it last christmas, but it was only upon my return from utah this summer that my mother pulled out the ballard designs catalogue, suggested a model, and then lugged me off to the fabric store in search of neutral fabric with a punch.

the days following utah were difficult. and so in some ways i think the chair was more my parent's peace-offerening to my mental health and happiness (the sultan of all the many forms of stability) than actual birthday gift. but what a lovely peace-offereing it was. because as of today, i have the chair. but in early september i had those few afternoons spent with my mother in the comfort of a heavily air-conditioned fabric store quietly perusing spool after spool after spool.

grocery store bundle.

i go to the grocery store. every day, in some form or another.

there's the one i go to on 72nd with cheap cheeses and great guacamole. and the one on 74th where a gal can always count on a gaggle of firemen stocking-up for the week. there's the whole foods at columbus circle. and the one at union square. each with a fresh foods bar and stonyfield ice cream. and then of course my corner store on 181 that i head to daily for canada dry sparkling water. i go to frank's market on 187th when i need to pretend i live in a small town. and the ap across the street from that has those unforgivable fluorescent lights but, bless it, a decent selection.

and so i cycle through the stores. most often choosing the one that falls along my route for the day.

but yesterday morning i set my alarm early. got up, dressed, took the c train downtown, treated myself to an israeli latte and entered the grocery store of my choosing. i wanted the full experience. and i wanted it without too many others around. i wanted to revel in all that is a grocery store. i wanted to buy the mammoth box of clementines knowing i'd have to lug it nowhere but home. and so i perused the aisles, cruised the fresh produce, sipping my latte all the while.

and then i came across the flowers. oh the flowers. i picked some up,  began to walk away, then quickly returned and replaced them. flowers are an indulgence i cannot allow right now. not enough money.

and yet i couldn't seem to tear myself from the little corner of greenery. 4 dollars. that was it. that was all. the cost of the little bouquet. the cost of the coffee in my hand. why not splurge just this once? and as i stood there i was struck by a passage i had just re-read in liz gilbert's eat, pray, love. it's towards the beginning of the book when she's talking about moving into her first apartment--just after leaving her husband, breaking up with her boyfriend. and she talks about painting the walls warm colors and buying herself flowers every week--as though she was visiting herself in the hospital.

she creates a hospice of a home.

and so there i was. sunday morning. staring at the flowers. wondering why we only allow ourselves such indulgences when things get really rough.

and the thing is, what i'm learning is...if i wait now, if i put it off now, then probably i always will.

so i picked up the 6 dollar bundle, turned around, and walked away. this time, for good. and as i collected my fruits and vegetables and nuts--all with my flowers under my arm--i could feel my mind spinning and clicking, a veritable rolodex up there.

it's happened once or twice before, i hit a pocket of space and time and i can actually feel--actually hear my mind sorting thought after though at a speed so rapid i don't dare keep up. it is a restructuring of mind. a realignment of body. sudden realization after sudden realization--or at least the promise of realization. it is elucidation. the body alight with insight. it is a feeling unlike any other--a vitality unparalleled.

the flowers are on my dresser. in my sanctuary of a room. in my sun-lit apartment. in a little corner of washington heights. just along the river.

because the time for waiting has passed.

perfection.

i remember being young and unable to sleep the night before my birthday. morning just wouldn't come fast enough. it was a physical thing--that tingle of the stomach that spread to the fingertips and the crown of the head. because on that one day--that day of birth--one felt different. special.

i miss that feeling. it's been quite some time since i experienced it.

but yesterday? well, yesterday was perfect. because the day was so normal. i mean, no, not quite normal, but simple and lovely--as close to normal as a birthday can get and still be utter perfection.

it was the cup of coffee i had upon waking. the 7:15 am subway ride in which i ran into a dear friend. the 8:15 fitness class that had my legs throbbing and my stomach muscles doing a little, unsolicited dance. it was the warm shower afterwards. and getting caught in the rain in nolita. it was the french-moroccan bistro and their unbelievably thick latte. it was my new navy blazer that had me feeling beautiful. and lunch with girlfriends. laughter. the ogling of good looking, bearded men as only downtown manhattan (and parts of brooklyn) can produce. it was coming home to a clean room at the end of the day. lit candles against the gray of the sky. a little package from home. my mother's perfect (yes, truly) sugar cookies. the phone call from my bother. an evening spent in our tiny kitchen. lazing about discussing books and clothes and plans. it was the half-glass of prosecco. and the little orange pumpkin that now sits on my dresser. it was all of your kind wishes. lovely wishes. and words of encouragement.

and so when the clock passed from midnight to just-past and i was still awake, i didn't even notice. i didn't regard the passing of another birthday with great sadness as i used to (another year until i feel this way) because it seemed entirely possible that this great feeling, this perfect and simple and bordering on pedestrian (in the most glorious of ways) feeling might last all year long. yes, i'm sure there will be interruptions, ups and downs, but all in all it felt as if yesterday set the tone for all that is to come in this quarter-century-year. and i couldn't be more content.

alright, i'm off to the freezer for one of those sugar cookies. (one can do such things the morning after their birthday).