Welcome Vibrations

A striking thing happened this morning after dropping my son off at his preschool. I returned home, did not check email, vacuum up dog hair, make a Trader Joe’s list, stare intently at Yahoo news while groaning at the spelling errors, or workout with my DVD peeps. I wrote—and experienced: Happiness.

I never expect to feel happy when writing—not because I hate it, but because with an active, early-rising three year old, writing is about accomplishing what I can before the next little-boy event, rather than consciously enjoying the creative process. As I worked, I was on some level aware of the house finches in my front yard’s trees—instead of the dog snoring, cats gakking and/or the many lawnmowers of suburbia. When I glanced at my watch, two and a half hours had passed in a blink and my heart was fat with—I think it’s safe to say: Bliss.

Knowing I would grab my weird-coat that only I can love, minivan keys and the dog by 12:50p.m. and zoom to pick up my son made the morning even more—I’m thinking precious is the word.

Since I became a mother, life is always surprising me with its myriad of ordinary miracles and pockets of personal bliss I used to—I’m pretty sure, although life before my son and his early waking hours is persistently fuzzy—take for granted.

Tweet.

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About PB Rippey

Writer, wife, mother, activist, fortunate.
This entry was posted in Adult writing, dog, Fiction, Me and Us, middle grade, Parakeet, Steps In Promotion, To Explain, Writer's Angst, Writing, Writing Progress, WTF and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Words do not escape you

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