view from kitchen window
I used to live in a first floor apartment. The few windows looked straight across a sidewalk sized alley at the neighboring building.
I lived there for 10 years and 5 months alone, then for another five years and nine months with Andy. It started out as a beautifully modern place for a 24 year old girl to begin adulthood in a new city. It ended up being dark, crowded and irrevocably dirty.
Now we’ve lived in the new place for nearly 5 months. It’s gorgeous. Each morning when I enter the kitchen to get coffee, I have a view of the sunrise. If it’s especially good, I go upstairs to our private deck to get better pictures.
January 11, 2011 begins
I don’t know how long we’ll live here. Andy hates it when I talk that way. But none of us knows what the future holds. We had an earthquake while I was typing this.
I should be happy. But I’m afraid. And I’m tired of clinging and pushing. I try to put gratitude on the forefront. I try not to repeat the thought, “I’m sad. I’m sad. I’m sad.”
I’m sad. I try to breathe. I do breathe. I’m breathing.