Monday, September 15, 2014

I am reading a perfectly pleasant little novel about a divorced woman putting her life back together and learning how to be on her own. This is the kind of novel where I would go, "me too! Info that!" Each time she discovers a solitary pleasure. As I'm reading it, I remember when those solitary pleasures were mine, and there is a teeny ping of missing them, but then I inventory all of the love in my life now. The love from Chris, the dog. All of the joyous loud love. The warm quiet love. How I can reach out and touch it. That is what was missing before: the fullness of love. I still can't quite believe how I got here. 

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