– Being so immersed in your work that the hours slip by.
– Climbing a long rope, straight up.
– Taking care of yourself.
Having some extra time.
When the long walk to work becomes a dance thanks to the buds in your ears.
– What happens when you honor the rut: the dam breaks and the flood of expression flows.
– Surprising a friend with gift that makes her smile.
– Days that are made for sticking your head out the window, whether or not you are a dog.
– Going to the zoo. Yeah, the zoo. Won’t soon forget the way that brown baby pig plopped down in the middle of a pile of white ones.
– Feeling wanted and loved.
– Wanting and loving.
– Standing on the edge of a pond and seeing the geese come to you. Come to you!
– Feeling’ in the groove pretty much all day.
– Sitting in your shit. And being OK with that.
What happens when you stop trying too hard.
Jazz in the woods.
– Extra-long smiles.
– Driving extra-long miles with an empty tank and making it safely.
A moment in your thinking when you see how naturally your instinct could kick in, has, in fact, started to kick in, a pinky toe of thought, that could and used to by default send you down a familiar and unflattering path, but instead you pause, you allow nothing to take hold, nothing, as if your palm opened after picking up some sand, and just then another thought, this one newer but known, fills in the void. That thought: the old one doesn’t hold any more. It does not … hold … any … more. You have this. You need nothing. You have this.
– Warm sun and a light cool breeze while walking on a Sunday morning.
– Emptying the tank.
– Snuggling with a furry friend in the afternoon with no particular place to go.
– Feeling like you’re fitting in somewhere new.
– Rainy nights.
The good thing that happens when you let go.
– Moments when you are who you were meant to be.
– Moments when you are challenged to get back to that place.
– Watching your dog strut into his kennel, ball in mouth — ready for sleep, but staying prepared for more play.
– The return of evening walks.
– Writing time. The kind of writing that’s just for you.
– Steak night.
– Talking to the neighbors about a running joke you have with a friend.
– Thinking of telling the friend what you found.
– Being with a curious companion.
– Receiving something angry — but not going there, too.
– Stephen Wright. Live. After all these years.
– Being in the groove. At least for a few hours.
Hearing your friend react to the postcard you sent — the same way you figured he would react when you wrote it out the week before: Ha!
Long walks with a happy dog.
A friend who stitches your sweatshirt and makes it look better than it did when you bought it — then asks for nothing in return.