Sometimes I grow absolutely elated.
I look in the mirror, and I think over my day. That day which is ironically like every other day for me. I had no home, except the one I currently temporarily have. I’m filled with a memory that sparks a million memories, some related to that day’s events, others completely obtuse. But they all share in common that I was out, about and experiencing life.
Were there squabbles, upset children, disappointing meals or time spent sitting in construction? Yes, every one almost every day.
Do I count the state lines I’ve crossed, the imaginary borders of the world like crow’s feet and bags about my eyes? Do I worry? Over next destinations or arrangements, children this and loving my best that, absolutely.
But I’m eager and full of a sort of contentment that I’ve never known. To be content is to be complacent and I find sitting still to be a killer of my body and soul.
My contentment is in knowing that I can do anything. That I have succeeded not in fame or fortune, but freedom as best I think it’s ever been achieved.
And so when I look in the mirror, thinking back on a today that’s as diversely normal as any day, I am pretty damn happy with what I see.