Well, the sun is out, which means it’s warming up, which has forced me back indoors. But holy shit was it nice out to read–overcast, but still comfortable, with a genuinely cool breeze that was enough to feel good on my bare legs but not enough to even rustle the papers on my lap.
I cried at the end of the manuscript about early independent Nashville record labels. It might not move anyone else to tears, but I was happy to see it all come together and to feel like I’ve been a part of something meaningful.
Sometimes, I really can’t believe this is my life. Sistasmiff writes a beautiful post about John Hartford which reminded me of the wonderful weird things that have happened to me. To what end, I sometimes wonder, but there you go. It probably doesn’t mean anything at all. It’s just some nice stuff that happened to us.
I never met John Hartford, but once, shortly after he died and right before his wife did, I sat in his office, eating chocolate cake, surrounded by dogs that still wandered around looking for him, and reading a manuscript he’d been at work on about a fiddler up in Kentucky.
Nothing came of it. I can’t remember why. I got a call from a lawyer years later asking if I had the manuscript, but I hadn’t taken it out of the office, let alone out of the house.
I feel lucky today.
I think I sell myself short quite a bit. But today I feel like I’ve got the life I deserve.
Which is funny to me because I usually feel like an imposter, like at any minute someone’s going to knock on the door and say, “Ms. B., I’m afraid you’re going to have to move back home with your parents and leave this spot to a real grown-up.”
So, who knows? I’m going to just go with it, this feeling of contentment, for as long as it lasts. It’s nice.