I am looking out the window of my tiny house in Michigan and watching the snow pile up on the road.
I won't be going into town today, and I don't mind at all.
My dog is in a ball at my feet. The heat is on. I'm wrapped in a blanket. I feel so lucky in this moment to be alone here, to feel safe and to feel like I'm home and there is nothing to be scared of.
I think this morning I will maybe go back to bed. But I think later I'll read a bit, and I'll call my boyfriend, who is in New York at the moment and always sending me funny texts about the people there and the pricey food. He likes it over there, even if he doesn't say it. He likes the rush. I don't. But they say opposites attract, and we both enjoy visiting and staying in each other's worlds frequently.
I never thought I would really be at peace. I thought my word would always be Almost. Almost there, almost done writing, almost free, almost out of debt, almost happy.
But no. I am here, now. I am not perfect, I am not finished, but I am not defined, either, by what is incomplete.
I am grateful, and I am present.