When I was eighteen I had this list of a hundred things that make me full and happy and I've since culled it down bit by bit, throwing up shields. Or maybe editorializing... maybe becoming less of a presentation and more of a just am. What's missing now is adding on, making the list of what I was become a record of what I am. The key to keeping myself authentic, though, would be keeping it in my own language, behind closed doors. What went awry the first time was collecting these things in order to air them.
I like cleaning the lint trap in the dryer. Waking up a few hours early and knowing I can just float back to sleep. Quirky cats. Poetry. Secret smiles. Reading the instruction manual only after I've figured it out myself. Deserted highways. Yarn. Mountains. Depressing songs. Certainty. Easy decisions. Curiosity. Shampoo. Answers. Changing into someone new. Second chances. Touch. Pine trees. Winter songbirds. Feeling the cool of the ground through the soles of my shoes. Counting by 3s. Jigsaw puzzles. Laughing first. Taking things apart. Libraries. Being alone in a crowd. Minor keys. Knowing what I'm coming home to. Dwelling in possibility. Your hands. Languages. Airplanes. Goofy grins. Orange juice. NPR. Roller coasters. Basking in reflected glory. Swans swimming in pairs. Music teachers. Feeling securely loved. Cozy couches. Grammar. Sun dogs. Procrastination. Strength. Toast.
But no matter who's reading, I'll always end with a word like toast.
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