Fay Weldon wrote, or said--I don't know, it's on an old card I saved from someone I don't remember that I found at the bottom of an old hatbox I got from a store that no longer exists--that "Nothing happens, and nothing happens, and then everything happens."
I want to believe that.
I've spent the past couple of months honing my precious live-in-the-moment skills and now they are sharp as shrink wrapped steak knives, capable of cutting through tin cans, bullshit, mid-thirties heartbreak, and three inch thick candle wax with the same dexterity as slicing a Porterhouse. I have become an appreciator of sunlight, naps, old movies, new books, all things I have loved in the past but got away from, distracted by life and technology and hopefulness and what ifs and maybe sos and somedays.
I don't want to be someone who says, "I'll be happy if..." and then the litany begins. I want to be the person who can say, "I am happy now. As I am. No changes, substitutions, exchanges or returns." And you know what, in a lot of ways, seriously, A LOT of ways, I am. There's just this one thing, this one thing that makes all the rest feel like so much nothing because that one thing has the potential to be the aforementioned everything, so I am sitting here on a Saturday afternoon hoping Fay Weldon in her curvy creamy script on this old red card is right, and that all this nothing that has been happening will soon become the promised everything.
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