Last night, I slept as deeply and undisturbed as I have in months. I woke up this morning much later than I’d planned, my body heavy, and unwilling to move on its own. Seamus slept against my hip, Marlowe was curled up next to me, her little face resting against my head.
I took my time waking up, and coaxed myself out of bed.
The wood floors of my house felt cool beneath my feet as I made my way into my kitchen and made the first of what will be many cups of coffee — not because I need coffee, but because I’ve figured out a way to make cold brew coffee that gives me the most delicious cup of coffee I’ve ever had.
Through the living room, I paused to kiss Anne good morning. I walked down the hallway into my office, sat down in front of my computer, and began my day.
I read emails, checked the morning news, glanced at Twitter, moderated comments here and at Radio Free Burrito.
Then I looked at a blank composition window, unsure where to begin. I looked into myself, tried to find something that needed to be recounted, a story that needed to be told, an amusing event over the last few days that was clamoring to be translated from memory and experience into narrative.
I found a single thing, but it’s actually too personal and painful to share. That one thing, though, once identified, starts to feel like a bug bite, demanding to be scratched and then itching more, asserting itself more, the more I scratched it. Though it is, in relation to everything else in my world, very small, it became the biggest thing, the only thing, pushing out everything else
And yet, I can’t.
So I begin typing, putting together images and moments from when I woke until when I began assembling them into words.
And when I get to that point where the thing asserts itself again, it holds me and will not let me pass.
And so I write it, but I don’t press publish. I put it away, in a document that is just for me, and I write this instead.
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Yep, keep some things for yourself like the morning deer on the train tracks. Sharing dilutes intensity.
I can understand not want to publish it, but I do miss Wil Wheaton the author. Loved the chap books and find myself missing them…
Sometimes you have to write about a thing to understand it. It helps you go back and assess tough things so you can cough up the furball, or at least look straight at it and say: “Yep, That happened, but I’m OK.
But what’s neat about the fact that you blog, is that you also think & write about the good things. All experiences are learning experiences – most people just tend not to go back and examine happiness and success in the same detail as pain & failures.
Anyway, how cool is it that those first few paragraphs describe a typical morning for you? It’s very similar to most of my mornings though it wasn’t always like that. Being self employed and loving your work and getting to be around your family while you do that work is about as good as it gets.