Pure joy or just contentment?

 

I don't know if it is pure joy or just massive contentment?

I woke at 6 and if you pardon the cliché, bright eyed and bushy tailed. "I'm going to go write," I said to Rick.

By the time, I came back from bathroom to the snore room-office the light was on, the heat shoved up and a bowl of tea was next to my laptop. No wonder, I adore the man.

I'm part of Flash Nano for the month of November where the participants produce a story under 1000 words each day. The 7th prompt arrived too late last night. "Write a story in the form of a list. Use the number Seven in the title."

I write best in the morning, and this morning my fingers could barely keep up with my brain. I will let the story sit to de-typoize it and to tweak before posting.

I message with the artist who is putting a mural on our patio wall and deliberately ignore the US, French, English, war news. Things will happen without me knowing and will be there when I'm ready to face them. 

Going back into the bedroom Rick was reading with Sherlock curled beside him. The new fireplace was on and the flames danced. It made sense to join them in the warm bed.

I grabbed the detective story I was racing through. I like the characters and the writer has some great phrasing. Totally different from the book about a medieval abbey, I'd just finished.

It's marché day, but it's cold with rain showers. Inside seems the better choice. 

I make breakfast: oatmeal with walnuts, bananas and strawberries. It's kaki (persimmon) season and because it's so short, I enjoy at least one a day. They are so sweet. One of the joys of living here is discovering a fruit or veggie when they come into season locally. 

The laundry is ready to be hung and Rick and I do it together. We, like many French, do not have a dryer, although we do in Geneva. One makes us appreciate the other both ways.

I decide to read a chapter, take my shower.

Today will be more writing. I need to create the tableau for the woman who checks our apartment regularly. It's a tradition. We take stuffed animals and create a scene such as Gulliver's Travels or Noah's Ark, and when we come back, she's changed it to another scene, usually far more clever than ours. Not that it's a competition, but a way to tap our creativity.

I have another blog to write for Substack peculating in my head. Rick and I may go over his edits to my Sugar and Spice novella that I plan to post as a serial. I still need to decide do I do it on this blog address or create a new blog for it.

There's a haiku that I've written and I want to do an illustration.

Maybe this afternoon I'll do the walk with Sherlock and Rick, maybe I'll get a chance to go back to my drawing, maybe I'll do more reading. Maybe we'll do a café sit. Maybe we'll watch a Netflix. Maybe all these things are nothing special, but for me they tell me how lucky I am in every ion of my body.

What I felt as I watched the fire and enjoyed the art work before starting Part II of my day was such a tsunami of emotions that I couldn't define it, which is why the title of this blog.

You decide.