Happy Thanksgiving, y’all.
I spent the majority of the week with my people in Grand Rapids, Carl swooping in as work allowed. We had some notable grown up time—wrote a collaborative poem cycle on Mahatma Gandhi’s list of virtues, traded lists of book and movie recommendations, long talks into the night. It’s nice to be grown ups together for sure, but I have to admit the 3 short people sort of stole the show.
Reuben, concentrating on his art
Gideon telling stories to himself. Cute little introvert.
Reid: smiley, gooey, and 7 months old.
Hope your holidays were just as swell if not more so. We got home late last night, and I’ve spent a blissful morning cleaning and doing laundry. You’d think that would be a downer, but here’s the thing about me: I love my home. I really, really love my home. And, no matter how fantastic it is to see family and eat mind-blowing cheeses late at night whilst chatting about EVERYTHING, there comes a time—usually somewhere between the asphalt and our front door—when I start to register that deliciously cosy emotion that is some strange mixture of comfort and autopilot energy.
Call me crazy, but I think there’s an underrated pleasure in pulling out the woolen sweaters before tossing the laundry in the dryer. I like changing the towels and tidying up the kitchen and getting reacquainted with the quiet. There’s a happy purr to my engines the first day home from a trip, a sort of introvert’s triumphant jungle cry:
This is my world! I make decisions! Ha HA!
… So, anywho.
Am just about to put the kettle on and start digging into the mystery nov. Happy Black Friday!