The house was serene a few moments ago, a rare occasion since the arrival of our son. My husband asleep upstairs, time stood still as I lay my child down after a feeding. The weather is still cold from the retreating winter and the darkness fully encompassing the streets outside. No longer a smoker, I find that my recent obsession of publishing my musings into an audience of strangers ignites a desire to connect with my inner Vonnegut, Hemingway, or Twain. Not that I would belong among such giants, but the idea that I could somehow channel them through whiskey and smoke, imagining myself in some bar, with no idea or care to know it its morning or night.
Becoming a mom is interesting. 18 months ago, I was on a last minute flight to Tomorrowland, with my biggest question for the weekend being MD, Acid, or presence? Today, a single cigarette feels like liberation - and I don't mind.
I'm grateful for the dichotomy as I observe this human experience. The stillness of my house is somehow the stillness of my soul. Chaos was a chapter, and now something different. A new series from the same author.
