leahbobet | How it's supposed to be.

This is how it's supposed to be: Afternoon sunlight spilling across the creaky wood floor of my bedroom, and all over the century-old red bricks of the house next door, outside the living room window. Live Pearl Jam on the radio; a fuzzy burgundy sweater hung over the back of my chair. Sea salt chocolate, and bright, smooth focus, and writery work -- Ideomancer editorial, interview questions, page proofs for a reprint anthology -- under my hands. The floor's old in this apartment, and worn smooth. I can do little pirouettes on my way to the kitchen sink to fill up my mug with water and not catch my socks on splinters.

The Dayjob is closed for the next week and change. I'm not back at work until Tuesday after next. Until then, I live how it's supposed to be.

(

matociquala introduced me to this essay years ago. It's very Vonnegut, and it made me stop more, and notice things. Read it. Take a minute.)

We get so busy. I get so busy, y'know? And sometimes I forget about these little breaths and moments of light shifting on the floor; the little slivers of perfection you get in between all the obligation and noise.

No, we might not always get the lives we want. There are too many things stacked against us in terms of time, and money, and the push-pull dance that's the needs and desires of other people. But those lives find their way in through the corners. They squeeze up through the cracks and afternoons off, in the smell of baking and hair bunched up out of your face and the idle IM chatter minimized on your desktop. They're always there, flowing underneath our feet like the water table. Waiting for us to stop, and turn our noses up to the sky, and breathe in deep.

Happy holidays, kids. Stay good, 'cause I know you are.