Sunday means home.
Home means I had to drive to get there.
Yesterday at 5:30 am we woke up and drove the twelve hours it takes to get from Colorado to Montana, where my mother and I spent Thanksgiving. Then, this morning, after coffee with my mother and gassing up the twenty year old car that still works, I drove home. Listening to the Stone Roses, I felt okay with life, something that rarely happens. Satisfaction is a fickle friend, and I often feel not enough of something or multiple things. Not aggressive enough, not enough of a dreamer, an optimist. Never relaxed enough, always a shade too eager or neurotic or competitive. Never reading enough books or devouring enough knowledge, or not being healthy enough. Today though, as I drove past groves of pines and hawks perched on fences, I felt okay with things. I felt enough for everybody and everything, and I felt like I could breathe. I sang alone in the car, pondered life things, and just was. It was really fucking marvelous.
Pictured: Nocturne in Black and Gold by James Whistler, image via Wikimedia.