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Yesterday I cleaned my office out – getting rids of lots of books that I don’t want to read or keep. I cleaned off the desks and under them a little bit, too, all in prep for ripping out the carpet which I can’t quite seem to make myself do. I don’t know why. It’ll be hard work but mentally easy. I know how it works. I’ve spent time learning how to pull it up – I have special tools to help with things like the left-behind staples in the floor. I’m ready to mask and glove up and get this terrible, disgusting, stinky carpet OUT of here, but I’m stopped somehow. There’s a fear, and I feel it, and it isn’t like me. What on earth am I afraid of? Lala did it in her office, and it’s so much better. If my hardwood floor is too terrible to look at underneath, I can get a huge Ikea rug which would be a million times better than this carpet. But I’m still scared of screwing it up.

There’s also a part of me that doesn’t want to spend my precious free time ripping out carpet. December is my month to READ, and I’m loving it so much – I don’t want to take time away from that. Basically, all I want to do is read. On the week days, I do my work just so I can get back to whatever book I’m reading. I started my “studio journal” yesterday – idea courtesy of Janine. In it, I’m chronicling how the year is going in kind of an art-journal way. I’d love to visit it every Sunday when I plan my week. Yesterday I wrote down some of the books I’ve read this month and made some notes about them and about how I feel in the project so far. But I still don’t know how to rate the creativity I’m feeling/not feeling. The whole idea of the year of play is to be more inspired, but what kind of yardstick do I use? Maybe I should do it every day and take an overview average? What would I rank?

How good did my creative work feel to do today?

Is this perhaps the question that matters? Isn’t it the best way to rate inspiration level? I’m dropping a pebble into the well to see how long it takes for me to hear the splash. I wish I could just clock that, write down the seconds it takes and extrapolate from there. I should probably ask myself that question at the end of the day. How can I set that up so that I remember to do it? Excel spreadsheet? Take an average? Will I really open it at night? Maybe add it to my ToDo list to do when I’m done working?

Today I need to write a bit more than I did yesterday to make my goal – trying to decide whether to go to Mills or not. Sometimes I HAVE to get away, and today is ideal to get out of the house because my first coaching call isn’t until 2pm. But honestly, I’m so loath to put on real clothes. Right now I’m wearing the pink wool socks that Pamela knit me (I’ve been wearing them all winter so far), my slippers, my thermal underwear bottoms, the black dress I wore yesterday (okay, and the day before that) and my black cashmere which I have whipped into shape as my cashmere of this year. Utterly comfortable. Probably a tiny bit smelly. Warm, and more importantly, strip–downable during the hot flashes that come about twelve times a day. (TIRED OF THEM.)

I’ve been experimenting with using the dining room table as an alternate office. At Mills, since I got the WiFi password, I turn off my internet when I get there. That’s how I get the work done. It struck me last week that perhaps I can just simulate that. So for a few days now I’ve gone to the table and turned off the internet when my computer hits the wood. I do my work, and I don’t have to get in the car to go anywhere, and best of all, I don’t have to put on a bra.

I suppose I’m jumping to conclusions here. In order to go outside, I don’t HAVE to put on a bra. There are no bra police, especially at a women’s college. But comfort–wise, I must, which doesn’t make much sense. At home, I want no bra. Outside the house, I can’t be comfortable without one on. Which is, of course, a direct and deep connection to the idea that my body isn’t my own when I’m outside the house, that I must be willing to let it be critiqued, that I must put on my best show. And more specifically, I can’t be seen with sagging, bouncing breasts. The idea that breasts aren’t up below our chins is offensive. And I’m a culprit in this. I am someone who notices when a woman isn’t wearing a bra, and I feel strangely embarrassed for her (something I’m sure she wouldn’t appreciate). It’s hard to look away from the nipples, hard not to extrapolate from where they reside to what her breasts look like with no clothes on and Jesus, that’s an uncomfortable feeling. Why do men WANT that knowledge? I don’t want to picture people naked. I want to picture them wearing super cute clothes and darling tights or rugged jeans and Fluevogs or Doc Martens. I want them to keep their clothes on, please. And from here on out, I’m going to try to notice when I judge a woman for no bra and change my internal reaction to cheering. Because yes. Wearing whatever the hell you want is awesome.

Yesterday was just a workday, a normal one. I recorded three podcasts, and I wrote 2200 words, and I finished grading the novel class’s work. Those things took most of the day, and at night I was left feeling dry and tired. A bath helped, as did reading The Hazel Wood (I have an ARC, comes out in January), which is amazing. It really is that great. I’m awfully scared it ends on a cliffhanger. But that would be okay; I’m ready to read three books in this world, in this author’s voice. She has a unique, fresh way with language, and there’s such a magical feeling in this book. It’s taking me back to when I was a little girl and found the book I was waiting for. It happened over and over again, but I never knew when that particular lovely lightning would strike.

I read The Little Princess really early, perhaps too early, at maybe four or five? I read it so early that by the time I got the age it would make more sense to read it, eight or nine, I couldn’t remember the title or the author (nothing’s changed, I suppose). And I LONGED for it. I could see the secret room, I could feel her loss and loneliness, and I could feel her joy when the Captain came back, but I couldn’t figure out a way to get back to the world. I remember asking a librarian if she knew what book it was that I’d read. She couldn’t tell me (really, librarian?), and I only stumbled upon The Little Princess again by accident. The joy of that! The greeting that book gave me! Here I am! You didn’t imagine this whole story! (I couldn’t have, though I tried.) You found the treasure, and now you know the name of the book, and the treasure can never be lost.

I hope that when I’m good and old, ninety–five or more, when my mind is slipping, that I drop back into the reader I was as a child. I hope there’s a book or three like The Secret Garden or Anne of Green Gables that I keep in my hands, that I read to myself over and over for comfort. That would be a nice way to ease out of the world, I think.

Why am I thinking of easing out of the world? I have no premonition, but it did occur to me last night while I lay in bed, that IF I suddenly died, my last words on my blog would be something that would probably go viral, even though the post itself wasn’t that great. (They’re Morning Pages, after all. They don’t have to be great.) People would say, “Did you see that author? She wrote ‘Today I have spark. Today I flare.’ Isn’t that SAD? Nah, I don’t know who she was, either.” That’s a pretty terrible way to go viral, so I thought I’d mention to the universe that I’m not really interested in that. No, thanks very much anyway. I’m having too good a time right here, right now.

Again, it strikes me that writing this out loud is tempting fate, too, but that’s okay (I think). I’m not scared of death—not really. I feel like this world is big and scary and awesome enough that there’s something else out there, too. Dark matter and dark energy—that’s quite god-ish, right? I’m curious. I would just like to reject learning about it a while longer.

I think it’s the time in the world that has me thinking like this. Life is precious and fragile, and I take mine into my hands every day I’m alive, every day I dare to put my body inside my car on the freeway, every time I get on BART, every day I go to San Francisco (will there be a terrorist attack? of course there will. But when?), every time I run across the street. I could trip, I could break my neck, I could just flare out so quickly. We all could.

So I’d rather not. That’s all. I’m having such a good time here. I don’t want that to change. (But it will. Eventually. And when it does, I hope my dementia turns me into the kind of person I was at ten, completely unable to keep from reading and rereading my favorite books, the ones I knew I’d never get tired of.)

Clementine just put her sweet white–orange face right onto the heater vent, proving she is Lala’s dog. When Lala was in high school, she’d get up to go to school and then lie down on the bathroom heater vent and go back to sleep.

My whole relationship with sleep has changed since leaving the day job. I still struggle with it, but exponentially less than I did. I’m getting back to the place I think my body likes to be – full of sleep. When I was a kid, I took three-hour naps and slept twelve hours a night. I kept sleeping at night like that right up until I took the 911 job at age 27. Before that, I’d occasionally stayed up late to have sex, to party, to read (only once have I read all night – Housekeeping, Robinson) or to travel, but never for anything else. Not once did I pull an all–nighter studying. My first overnight shift was one of the handful of times I’d ever stayed up all night. I remember looking at 4 am like it had never happened before. I was actually late to an early-morning training shift because I overslept. I’ve never overslept for anything but that, not once. And I was in training with someone who terrified me. The way my heart fell and then thudded back into adrenalized action as I raced to pull on my uniform was actually painful. She never told on me.

I read a post last night by The Pale Rook, a Scottish artist, and she expressed the same feeling I have about loving being something very small in the world. Every time I meditate, I like to think for a second about my relative size in the universe. I live for a flicker of time, not even that. I’m one soul on a planet of three billion that is one planet in one of a hundred billion solar systems in our galaxy that is one galaxy in a hundred billion galaxies. There’s no way to overemphasize how insignificant I am, and I love the feeling.

Today, I have spark. Today, I flare.

I’ve finally realized why I love the monthly Alameda Antiques Faire so much. Every weekend (can this be an exaggeration? I don’t think it is) when I was a kid, we went either garage–saling (it is too a word) or flea–marketing. The way my body moves from table to table, the way my eye drifts from one random treasure to the next piece of crap, makes me feel like a kid with electricity in my veins. I don’t even covet much, that’s the interesting thing. I don’t want extra crap in the house. We can’t afford the nice things at the Faire. So it’s not even like money burns a hole in my pocket.

We sat in an AMAZING set of leather chairs from the fifties. I said, “We could put them where the blue chairs are now!” Years ago, those blue chairs came with our couch on Craigslist for a total of three hundred bucks. They’re comfy but dog–smelling and old–looking. They’re fine for us. They are NOT leather club chairs that embrace your body like a hug of a rich man wanting to huff the money out of your wallet. We asked how much. The guy said six–thousand–five–hundred and we burst into laughter. The best part was that while I was already standing, Lala didn’t even leap up. She just sat there, laughing some more, enjoying the chair.

I did find a black cashmere sweater from Costco in size enormous for twenty bucks. It’s the kind of thing I would never buy from the store—that’s some damn raping and pillaging they’re doing of the world with that cheap cashmere. Buying it new but second–hand? I’m all in. It’ll replace the blue huge cashmere I got on eBay – the one I wear every single day of winter, the one with the hole the size of a watermelon (truly) under the left armpit. I always meant to sew it up and never did. Someday the black one will be in the same ragged, torn shape, and I’ll use my serger to Frankenstein them together.I never, ever wear them out of the house. They don’t have to look good. They just feel wonderful, lighter than any sweater I’ve ever knitted, and I don’t have to respect them at all, the way I do a hand knit. I can rip them off my body furiously every time I go into a hot flash, which is about every fifteen minutes. Immediately after the sweat dries, I’m freezing, so I tug it ruthlessly back over my head.

But the best part wasn’t the finding or the buying. It was the wandering. It was the fact that it didn’t matter which row we went down, or which we missed. It didn’t matter that we got there so late we were only there for a couple of hours before they packed it all up. It’s one of the most bonding date–type of things to do – you explore a little by yourself, you call out to your mate who’s up the row, you laugh about the constipated Santa figure and dream about the place you could put that perfect, vintage, walnut couch that makes you wish—just for a moment—for a bigger house, for a different lifestyle in which you have fantastic dinner parties catered by people in white coats and bow ties. You do this together, and then you let that fleeting dream go and just as readily move to the next table which makes you long to collect vintage French handbags.

We got a poke bowl for lunch and sat with our backs to the sun, the estuary so close we could almost dip our fingers in the water. We watched the cranes on the other side of the water in Oakland offload containers, hoisting them high into the air. At the horizon, in Berkeley, the sky was pale white, but it burst into brilliant blue overhead. I leaned against Lala. She licked my shoulder, taking a tiny taste, and for some reason, I didn’t mind.

Last night, when I took the dogs outside to pee, I smelled that gorgeous fall scent of wood smoke and damp, cool air, and instead of feeling nostalgia or that bittersweet ache, I felt something different. That smell always made me long for something, and I never knew what.

Now I know what I wanted. I wanted all of this. This life. This wife, these dogs, this house, these sisters close to me, these friends, this exact career, bumps at all. I’m not longing anymore. I’m not waiting for the someday I’ve yearned for since I was old enough to hope for my future. It’s an astonishing discovery, actually, and it puts me off balance.

Of course, I still have wants. I want to be the Tim Gunn of memoir someday (knowledgeable, warm, kind, very nattily dressed). More money would be nice. A decent retirement account in the bank sure would be welcome.

But I possess this glorious dream, and wood smoke now just smells beautiful, instead of bittersweet.

This does mean I need to start asking what’s the next big dream, the one that attaches to this one?

In literal dreams, this morning I dreamed I married a sea lion shapeshifter in New Zealand. She was really nice and I loved her, but I found her smell and her barking annoying, and after I married her, I suddenly remembered that I already had a wife I was in love with, but she and her family said they’d come along to our house in the States, and everything would be fine – they wouldn’t mind Lala being there. While neither of us is a jealous person, I wasn’t sure Lala would feel the same way.

So I’d like to state for the record that my next big dream involves no sea lions at all.