Happiness is Mowing the Lawn

It is hard not to be ecstatically happy. I was mowing the lawn this morning, struggling with our gifted push mower for the first time ever, when I caught myself smiling and that line came to me: It is hard not to be ecstatically happy. I fell so hard for the line that I am currently sitting on the steps into the house from the garage–garage door open, lawn half mown, fresh-cut grass on my feet and a trail of the stuff through the house as I ran in to grab my laptop to blog for the first time in months.

It is hard not to be ecstatically happy.

Before you get the idea that I am just floating around on a euphoric cloud, let me say that for most of the time I feel normal. Normal emotions, normal everyday life–sometimes high, sometimes low, but nothing too far in either extreme. But then this ecstatic happiness sneaks up on me. Like yesterday when Husband and I got home from shopping and without speaking each of us went to the curb and grabbed the recycle bin and the garbage bin respectively to bring them into the garage. As the wheels of the trash can scrapped across the concrete, I was struck by the perfectness of the moment. This is what we will be doing for the rest of our lives: bringing in trash cans. Besides, Husband has a cute butt and he was in front of me.

It is hard not to be ecstatically happy.

I believe this is our third week of married life, but this is the first week where we have been able to just live. I have spent my time putting gifts away, getting ready to send out thank you cards, running errands, researching local grocery stores, drafting a list of goals (like finally make the switch to organic, start composting, start doing our own yard-work, etc), and generally just running a household as Husband works. And I keep seesawing between feeling like I need to get a job, and trying to embrace the idea of writing full-time. Husband keeps telling me that if he were in my shoes, he would write. Give it all I’ve got.

It is hard not to be ecstatically happy.

Since today is the first time I have felt like writing AND I have actually sat down to do so, I keen feel a tingling of hope building in me–that maybe this might actually possible. But I do not want get ahead of myself. I might scare the hope. Do not scare the hope.

But it is hard not to be ecstatically happy.

Yesterday I was up at 5:30. I read the paper (figuratively considering it was on my phone), I had my breakfast of a cup and a half of whole, non-homogenized milk and a couple of Hugs (my favorite Italian cookie) while I shopped veggies for a slow-cooker soup.

Ah domesticity. I will try to spare you the clichés, but it should be enough to say that I feel settled and well-grounded.

Oh yeah, and ecstatically happy.

But I didn’t think I needed to say that again.


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