I got out of the house by 9:00 a.m. and made my way to Fairfield to attend my first meeting of the Writer’s Resource Center. I’ve never belonged to a writer’s group so I had no idea what to expect, but I did think there would be coffee. There’s coffee at an AA meeting, isn’t there? Writing is at least as addictive. Alas, none.
After I got over that shock, I started introducing myself. I met poets, fiction writers, and even a publisher. I studied people’s faces as they read their responses to the monthly writing prompt. I drank a bottle of water, hallucinating the fragrance of freshly ground beans.
I headed back to Rio Vista at noon, getting slightly lost looking for gas, a restroom, and lunch. I ended my journey at Lucy’s Cafe, with a book and a gnawing hunger for garlic fries.
Four hours later, I’m squirming on my desk chair with a sore bum from my first official fall in Angel’s Haven. I knew better than to rise early and move through a day of many changes. I wore myself out traveling here and back again, down Highway 12 as the windmills rose in the mist, cutting through the fog like a knife in the bowl of soft butter on my counter.
Another load has cycled through its paces in the washer/dryer combo. I’m almost finished with all the accumulated laundry. I’ll deploy my new drying rack for the tights. I shrank a pair earlier Ihis week. Doing laundry in a tiny house involves a learning curve.
I haven’t taken my medicine for two days due to a rocky stomach. I’m not sure what I ate that disagreed with me but the mound of fries from Lucy’s set just fine. Everything’s groovy; it’s peachy-keen and Jim-Dandy. It’s a Saturday in the Delta and I have no complaints.
It’s the thirteenth day of the forty-ninth month of My Year Without Complaining. Life continues.