The Writing or the Egg?

If you buy into horoscopes, mine today said to take an hour to live in the moment and reflect on where I am in the present time because a big change is coming my way. Apart from the fantasy of several houses bickering for my novel at auction, I can't foresee anything. But really, who does? Life happens.

So in honor of not fighting against any kind of karmic wave of the future, and in honor of Thanksgiving, I offer my blessings: The biggies, of course. The tennis balls in that infamous jar as a metaphor for a full life. My family, friends, health and the opportunity to spend more time and money than just a fleeting moment in a dream on writing. But as it relates to the truest part of me, I'm thankful for my hard-boiled egg this morning.

Stay with me...

Ten years ago, I'd never have noticed the perfect striated texture of the yolk. How the smoke curling upward from my breakfast table reminded me of a scene I just wrote in my current novel. That perfect scent of home released as the coarse pepper fell from the grinder. These details cushion me from a life lived in the anesthetized state of daily rituals. Writing gifts me with the moment, a full sensory onslaught of the present time when so many around me live in the past and future. I delight in being a voyeur of the dialogue and movement of strangers I encounter each day and wonder if they'll remember the moment in their own lives as I remember it when I need character inspiration.

A Thanksgiving blessing just wouldn't be whole without including the writers I surround myself with. The richest friendships I've ever known. The final piece of my reflected hour. I don't know what's down the road, that impending change foretold, but for now, today, I am thankful to just be.