"I Guess I Worship Fascicle Things, But They are Different than His."

Today was a good day.

That’s happening more and more. I suspect those good days were always happening around me. I just wasn’t paying enough attention to it. Focused my energies in the wrong place.

I still do that from time to time. Failure is part of being human so there’s no pretense that I’m going to get this right every day. It’s just not, you know, the target.

I know this because even as my day may have fallen apart — when I turned a 20 minute walk home into a 90-minute adventure — I had a choice to make. One that just a few months ago would have turned out differently. Today, though, I took a few moments to look up into the sky. No big thoughts. No big plan to solve my lost problem. Just the clouds that were exceptionally big. And the sky that was painted blue.

But that’s not why it was a good day. Because big clouds and painted skies are too profound for me. My day was much, much smaller:

  1. I walked to work in gorgeous 65 degree weather
  2. The food court had quite a great selection of fruit + my wonderful barista rocked the cappuccino
  3. I blew threw the emails for Making Digital, a book I’m editing for Carnegie Mellon
  4. I set up a handful of interviews for the second edition of Dungeons + Dreamers, which I have been putting off
  5. The agent from NYC checked in on So Far Appalachia
  6. I printed out John’s scripts, Kelly’s pitches, Jenn’s proposal for some juicy Saturday morning reading
  7. I caught the end of a great conversation in the Center for Media Design on assessment tools

A blend of work and accomplishment. Of progress. Movement.

I need that for my own well being. I’ve never understood people who can stand still for long periods of time. I guess no more than they can understand my inability to settle down.

But even that didn’t make the day perfect. There was something else.

The Muse and I sneaked a few minutes to talk during her big family vacation. Little tales when we talk. Then text messages. Goofy stories. Told in parts and starts.

They annoy me, the constant updates, the half-told stories, the disjointed conversations. So much so that I look forward to them. And ask for them. And re-read them.

We’ve been slowly — slowly! — putting that part of our life in order. And we’re both starting to trust in that. Not something that’s easy to do given my alcoholism and the damage that flew around that. She has, throughout the years, taken more direct emotional hits than just about anyone else I know.

Which is far more vague that I normally like to be, but for now that’s enough. But we’re certainly, I think, approaching the time when we’ll tell that story too, I suspect.

Because we’ve had lots of good days. Small, simple, quiet days. The kind you want to string together. While you share your tales. And text messages. And laughs. Under exceptionally big clouds. And painted skies. While you move through life.

That’s a good day.