it's not infinite happiness--that's silly. there is stress and frustration and self-doubt. i'm still alive, after all. but it doesn't define my days like it used to. and it doesn't keep me up at night. a man flipped me off in traffic today, and instead of crying and writing him a letter to soothe myself, i watched his eyes in his rearview mirror and saw the weight of his life coming out in that gesture. this was not about me. this was his poem of torture.
i feel lucky. i feel grateful. if i were superstitious or mystical, i would be building alters to the universe or the great mother. there's no poem in that.