My husband is a gem. I am indeed a lucky woman. I woke this morning to my radio alarm clock elbowing it's way into my dreams. I stretched and discovered I was in an empty bed. I had not yet unglued my top lid from my bottom one and was still more asleep than awake (and I had hit snooze on the alarm, so the scales were tipping back toward sleep with every passing second), so I figured I had dreamt my husbands return. The fact that it was Monday and he was due to return the day before barely registered because he has been delayed before and so in a fuzzy, sleepy way I reasoned this must be the case, although I couldn't remember why. But I was sleeping and it was Monday and sleep is always sweetest Monday mornings. This is the morning when you really don't want to get out of bed because you know there are 4 more mornings just like this one to follow. And thought kind of hinders sleep, so I didn't think. Then I heard clanging pots. And I realized I had hit snooze, was almost all of the way back to dreamland and had nearly convinced myself my husband was still away.
In the kitchen my husband was well on his way to making the usually reserved for Sunday morning breakfast; bacon and eggs. This is unusual for two reasons 1) Mr. Sprite is more likely to be just heading to bed when I am getting up, therefore, not much of an early riser and 2) Mr. Sprite avoids cooking like the plague most days. His reason for this departure from the norm; he just wanted everyone to have a good breakfast before a busy day. That's it. Nothing spectacular, just good ol' fashioned kindness. Very refreshing on a Monday morn.
Next, due to a mix up in scheduling (that's Eyvi for "I forgot and got it bass ackwards"), Hubby and I were out the door by 8 am, I was off to work and he was off to do me a pretty big favour. While killing a few minutes together with conversation before we went our separate ways, I realized I had made a mistake and he didn't need to fulfill said favour until tomorrow! Which means he did not have to get up early, make everyone breakfast and head out the door today, he had to do it tomorrow (although I'm pretty sure the breakfast card is all played out). He wasn't angry, nope. He looked mildly amused, kissed me goodbye and wished me a good day. He's a saint!
Work was work. A means to an end. When it was done, I had no trouble returning to my jubilant mind set from earlier this morning.
As is my usual practice, I daydreamed the drive home away. Don't worry, I still pay attention to the road, you aren't in any danger. I began to entertain a familiar daydream I have often wanted to commit to paper but have always talked myself out of. I have always convinced myself that my brand of imagination is not one that would be accepted as fun or interesting or relevant by anyone other than myself. Years of daydreams, of spinning story webs and I never thought up anything relevant?! Isn't there a Law of Averages or something that may apply here? Can my imagination be that alien? Doubtful.
So, I played a little devil's advocate with myself. If I am as talented as I think I am, why can't I make this piece interesting and relevant? I decided that I could. I could try at least. And with precious few changes, I think I may have something. Don't get me wrong, I'm not telling you I've thought up The Next Great Canadian Novel, that's not my point. My point is that I have decided to commit this scene in my head to paper (or hard drive as the case may be). And I told my hubby about it. Not something I normally do. I am not one who readily allows visitor's into my imagination, in fact I tend to protect it fiercely, but tonight I wanted him to visit. So I told him a little, a very small vague glimpse, but I wanted to share nonetheless. Apparently with you too.
For tonight, I am only writing about writing. It's been such a long time I feel like we need to get reacquainted, writing and I. Get comfy again. Baby steps. I have all the support and encouragement I could ever want from my other half. I am gaining confidence in myself. I can almost see myself as a someone who could write without fear of rejection. Someone who could write solely for thyself, for the enjoyment (guilty pleasure perhaps, indulgence not allowed?). Almost. So what am I waiting for? Hmph. You got me.
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