The Heart is an Ink Pot

I'm an extremely fortunate person in so many ways. My friends are few but true, my job is less than I'd like but more than I'd ever hoped for, and the people and places I find in the role are phenomenal beyond anything I could imagine.

More than any of the good and wonderful things I'm surrounded by, I'm immeasurably glad that I've been nothing less than blessed with the ability to recognize those moments while they're still with me.

I was driving over the Bay Bridge for work today, and just as I reached the crest of it I could see the gentle hills and greenery of the western shore laid out before me. Though the sun was shining on me, there was shadow and fog on the trees that made this incredibly normal place look like a fairy tale world. I've been to the western shore tons of times(it's where all the stuff is), but it had never quite appeared to me the way it did at that moment.

The other day, the muse came over to hang an old wooden collage for me. Through the afternoon, I learned about him- that he likes my favorite bands and plays guitar, that he thinks my dreams aren't crazy. All from one afternoon that promised to be routine. (Plus, my collage got hung. It looks super fantastic.)

My best friend Tony often tells me that I'm like a child, and he's right. I'm open to the universe and constantly in awe of the wonders it presents, both big and small.

When I do, my heart feels like an overflowing ink pot, and any sort of quill I can find to scribble those feelings down I'll take.