When you’ve had a long day playing music, a day so long and so draining that, when you finally get home, you immediately fall into bed and succumb to a series of one-second naps while your cats demand an advance on dinner, and you rise to feed them and to go on your daily walk through the park, even though it’s pouring rain outside, but you do look fly in your trench coat and leather fedora, and once you’re home you are so thoroughly soaked that you have no choice but to peel your garments away from your skin and sink into a hot bath with a glass of Sicilian red and a 1953 hardcover copy of The Great Gatsby while your husband is downstairs listening to Salsa and hand-rolling pasta made from emmer wheat ground earlier that day, yet you manage to spend the majority of the moments described above restlessly questioning yourself, applying pressure where you like to think it helps, straining to cook your discontent down to a revelation which will no doubt yield a choice if not a decision, a way forward or through or out, a path or a dark corridor which leads nowhere but beckons to you all the same, promising you a richness equal to your own curiosity and bravery with every step of the way toward the beautiful life that you have right now.
a blog by Ellen