(Except tomorrow being Chadwick's birthday. I'm thinking about that a lot. Thank goodness for having a ton of free books pre-loaded on my Kindle so I have something else for my brain to do when it all gets to be too much.)
I got a couple of Anne Lamott books from the library yesterday--because who doesn't need more Anne Lamott in her life?--and started reading Small Victories, in which she began jumping up and down on my attention immediately. The prelude begins with her describing how dying friends remind you to get over yourself, not by saying so, but by "living and doing as much as they can, as well as they can, for as long as they can," and also "by being grateful for the day."
Yeah, okay. I'm listening. Not that I got far: she starts off the first chapter talking about the missing Book of Welcome that ought to be in the Bible, "the book that states unequivocally that you are wanted, even rejoiced in," and then says "We have to write that book ourselves."
|Where my story began. And where I've taken a couple|
of rest stops. But now my story has moved 100 miles
down the road.
I've had moments. Spending time with grandparents is never wasted time, even on days when I had to retreat to my room because my grandma's well-meant fussing got to be too much: she is, after all, the only grandparent I have left. Getting to do a little bit of unfettered travelling was fantastic. Quality time with my niece and sister-in-law, which I've never really had even though they've been part of the family since 2009, has been fun time that I've treasured. Going out for a long bike ride every evening just for the sake of riding was a joy I've never partaken in before.
And even though I've finally landed in the city I've been wanting to land in for six months, residual anxiety not only remains but has been intensified: a job and a place to live for longer than a couple weeks are things I need. And in the midst of just getting up in the morning and going out to do the next thing that needs doing, sometimes I forget to be grateful for the day. I give up on writing my book and settle for scribbling a note of no consequence on a piece of scrap paper that will be tossed later.
In a few minutes, I'll head out my temporary door and into what I'm trying to make my permanent city. (For those who have been asking: Cincinnati has a growing bike culture, lots of theatre, and is not a terribly long drive to my hometown if I'm urgently needed. All things I was looking for in a new home.) I'll walk around downtown a bit, make a note of who is hiring, build a little more of my mental map. Hardly the stuff of legend, but all in a day's work of intentionally living my story, of being grateful for every day.
What part of your story are you living today?