Publishing yesterday’s post was both exhausting (five hours to get those 1000 words!) and exhilarating (the first piece of real fiction I’ve written since middle school). I spent some time today surfing the net for other ideas for creative writing projects, and bookmarked several, but freely admit to not having the required brain power or attention span to do them justice right now. Picking up writing again is a lot like going back into the gym after several months of not exercising; I remember what I used to be able to do, so it’s a little frustrating not being able to jump right back in at that level. But just like the program to regain my former pace on the elliptical, I’ll gradually add time and resistance to my writing regimen, and occasionally mix up the routine in order to rest and recover. Today I feel the need to rest and recover, so this evening I’m reverting to general ramblings.
It seems a shame not to fill this blank screen with ramblings about how utterly content I am today. It’s been one of those days that really couldn’t get any better—to the point where I’m not sure if I should figure out how to bottle it or prepare myself for the $#!% to hit the fan. I slept till I woke up this morning, no EENP, EENP, EENP from the alarm clock to disrupt the circadian rhythm. Once Jim awoke, I tucked my head in its favorite place under his chin to talk about everything and nothing until rumbling tummies finally drove us to put feet on the floor and shuffle to the kitchen for sustenance. No projects or deadlines looming on the horizon meant freedom to spend a lazy morning watching last night’s UFC fights (Jim) and reading a book (me). When lethargy threatened to morph into full-on hibernation, we bundled up and headed out into the falling snow for a wintry walk. No projects or deadlines weighing on my mind meant freedom to enjoy the outing with all my senses: the wooly white sheep who really aren’t white at all against their snow-covered pasture, the subtle differences between the smoke from this house’s coal fire and that one’s wood fire tickling my nose, the snow under my wellies sounding just like a denim-clad derrière sliding on a leather chair. Back home to a hot shower and hot tea and some quiet time at my still-clean desk to brainstorm future writing projects. A no-muss, no-fuss pizza supper (not the traditional Sunday family dinner of my childhood!) before settling in front of the fire to await the start of the playoff games, knowing it doesn’t matter that Jim’s Patriots don’t kick off until 11:30 p.m. (London time) because neither of us has to work tomorrow. No projects or deadlines demanding attention means freedom to indulge in one of my favorite hobbies, crocheting an afghan, during the games. Knowing I’ve eaten well within my calorie limits all week, I can splurge on a glass of Lynchburg lemonade and a bowl full of popcorn tonight. Since the work week doesn’t begin until Tuesday, I anticipate another night of restful sleep after the Patriots clinch their berth in the Super Bowl (Sunday sleeps are usually restless, disrupted by anxious thoughts and worrisome dreams about the coming week). Yes, all is well in my little world today, and this utter contentment is a feeling I could get used to.