Last night, I posted the above picture on Instagram and wrote the following confession to accompany it:
Confession: Today was a good day. I skipped my shower, wrote & wrote & wrote, met a beautiful new friend for for coffee. Husband has a work event tonight so I'm solo with the girls. The bigs are working on art projects. The babe is waiting for me to read her books. Mose Allison's "Don't Get Around Much Anymore" is spilling from the speakers. It was one of Dad's favorite songs and here I am, snapping & signing along in my sweatpants. I wonder sometimes if Dad can see me somehow, if he knows about this life I've stumbled upon & created, this family, this home, this happiness that's becoming a theme.
This happiness that's becoming a theme. Yes.
I can't explain it very well, but I feel like after lots and lots of self-searching and question-asking and fumbling around, I'm finally slipping into this wonderful place. It feels nothing short of tremendous.
Writing isn't about making money, getting famous, getting dates, getting laid or making friends. In the end, it's about enriching the lives of those who will read your work, and enriching your own life, as well. It's about getting up, getting well, and getting over. Getting happy, okay? Getting happy.
I've been through things. We all have.
I struggle with things. We all do.
I am often confused. We all are.
I am feeling good, alive, optimistic. And I've earned this, I think. This getting happy. This theme.
Oh, and these little creatures? They are happy-makers, too.