Living

I am writing for my life. I am writing into my life. I am writing because of my life. I am trying to survive just like every other human, every insect, every living thing: desperate for another minute, hour, day. Even when I am deeply sad, I am frantic to find meaning, to find purpose and breath and oxygen and sunshine.

I want to feel all there is to feel, he thought. Let me feel tired, now, let me feel tired. I mustn't forget, I'm alive, I know I'm alive, I mustn't forget it tonight or tomorrow or the day after that.

Ray Bradbury, Dandelion Wine

Waking up, feeding the dog and the cat. Deciding to learn to surf with B. 41 isn't too old, right?! Grinding the beans for my favorite coffee. Medicines. Impromptu playdate. Sibling fight. Disability insurance interview for C; connecting with a stranger, a nurse, a mom, another quiet soldier in the fight for neurodiversity. Chores. Hunger. Leftover cold veggie pot pie. Virtual therapy session for B. C wrapping birthday presents for B and discovering old Halloween decorations in amongst the bags and ribbons. Excitement, two children's rooms now webbed with spooky, stretchy fabric, plastic spiders, creepy goblets, Chihuahua skeletons, beaded pumpkins. Piano lesson. Seeing a friend. Finding a katydid in the garden, then a lacewing, then a kalamata-colored gladiolus.

I'm alive, I know I'm alive.