It’s raining outside, which is very delicious. Perfect for a Sunday of reading and writing and maybe cleaning the bathroom, which sums up my plans for today. But let me tell you about yesterday.
Yesterday, I woke up and thoroughly washed my hair for the first time in more weeks than I care to divulge, put my hair in two-strand twists, finished a book, began a new one but got distracted by Instagram, thought a lot about this maddening character in my novel who keeps trying to make the story about him (total narcissist 🙄), wrote a little and despaired, wrote a little more and lightly rejoiced, watched bad reality TV and slightly better reality TV, cooked a romantic (slightly burnt) dinner for myself like a lover, talked on the phone for hours with a friend, fell asleep with my sadness curled up beside me, like some faithful pet.
It wasn’t a particularly eventful or extraordinary day. And yet, by my standards, it was. Because all day yesterday I felt this electric charge of something. Something hard to explain. Let’s call it self compassion? Or, a kind of simultaneous existence, holding many things at once, dropping nothing, feeling full on fullness.