I’ve been self-indulgent. Discontent is but an ego-trip, a presupposing of something better. And yet, this is where I am, here now in this mid-Welsh town watching the sun come up through the window of my small studio. I am so blessed. Forget myself and remember the wonder. It is possible to feel it. I know this because I am beginning to remember. Surely the trick is to celebrate, hugs one’s life to one’s chest and be thankful. Must I go on? Is it clear yet? I apologised. And yet, when I got in their to wake him and say my piece, or should I say peace, there was a yellow post-it note on his chest of drawers. He’d written a series of questions about my unhappiness, was it to do with his being ill etc. It was so tender, so generous. How like him. I adore you, he said last night.
I think I need to explore the application process, go for things and see it is an exercise in writing. How to get myself across. But all the while being present, alert to what is – the sun, the sea, safe walks and a loving husband.
A gentle day today. A grounding day. I was still in Copenhagen this time last week. Think of that. Time flies.
A programme I listened to last week about the Parisian bouquinistes (itinerant book sellers) still plays around in my head, particularly something one of them, a woman, said. I sell books, she said with that French savoir-faire, and I’m free.
All that is to be mine will come to me. I will not mourn the rest but be thankful.