it's the little things, right?

Guess what. Yesterday I woke up, looked around, and ... took a deep breath. A really deep breath. An oh-my-goodness-I-think-I'm-finally-well kind of breath.

I made it. I'm alive. The world's still here. I'm in one piece. And I have energy again.

This is, without a doubt, the best part about being sick: the getting well again. Seeing everything fresh, and having the energy to dive back in.

So I feel newly aware, like I just woke up. And I'm thanking God for being well, and for all the wonderful little bits of life around me.

Like falling asleep the other night to the roar of wind and rain... tricking myself into believing it's the sound of the sea.

Like wearing fingerless mitts for a neighborhood walk yesterday, as twilight settled in, gawking at the trees. Welcome back, fall. Welcome back, me.

Like making plans for this, my much-belated birthday cake. (Crepes. Yeah, you saw that coming, didn't you?)

Like savoring a soy chai, and catching the first episode of Sherlock. (Did you see it? Finish reading this and then jump right over, you won't be sorry...)

And, you know, other little things... like--oh yeah!--finishing the first draft of that novel. Right. I kicked it into a higher gear this week, and added 21,000 words in three days flat. Nope, not my normal rate--that's absurdly fast.

I can only get away with it because it is, after all, just a first draft, and as Anne Lamott says:

The first draft is the child's draft. ... If one of the characters wants to say, "Well, so what, Mr. Poopy Pants?," you let her. No one is going to see it.

Yeah. It was the Poopy Pants draft. And it's done: 307 pages of childish glory, and I love it.

Hooray for putting the pneumonia quarantine to good purpose.

Hooray for finishing a draft.

Hooray for really deep breaths.

(26 before 27: For those of you keeping score? Finishing that draft means scratching off #23. Yeah. That's a good feeling.)

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