It hasn’t been difficult moving and being on my own again and especially away from family and close friends. I had some really, really convoluted strange dreams about some of the closest people to me the first few weeks. I also started to realize, more and more with every morning, that this is the closest thing to a reset I could have ever asked for myself and my life.
This was a big change.
And I’ve been using any free time I get to that advantage. I’m writing again and, more importantly, when I do I am looking at myself in a mirror again. Such honesty. This kind of reflection used to occur to me often, especially after I’d written or read something of mine to myself, but in a lot of my older work. I could see myself staring back at me. I feel nervous, excited, confused like falling in love.
At night, after I’ve fed everyone I’m paid to feed and have left that college campus and have returned to my apartment to shed layers of my work clothes, something returns to me that I take with me the following morning into that same kitchen and college. Because I write. Because the fact remains that there is something more that I am being pulled to, there is something more I am meant to be and do with this life. And I am so grateful, even lately. Grateful for my surroundings, being born, the way I was raised. Gratitude has become so, so much more important to me as I get older and especially lately.
It’s like a religion.
I read in Toledo next month and likely back to Denver next year.