Today, I was stopped for twenty minutes behind an accident. I started out worrying that someone was hurt. I sent strong and positive energy into the universe, hoping and maybe even praying that the people involved in the accident suffered as little as possible. I found myself starting to be very sad that they might have been seriously injured or financially devastated especially right before the holidays (whatever holiday any of them celebrate).

Before I understood the magnitude of my emotional reaction, I found myself crying.  In the middle of that crying jag, I realized that I am just so incredibly homesick for my son and for Midwestern accents and for Kansas City and for art shows and live music and Genevieve and Penny and Katrina and the whole damn bunch of my friends; for my house in Brookside and the Plaza lights and did I mention my son?

Traffic slowly resumed. I took several deep breaths. As I neared the involved vehicles, I looked to the side of the road for people. I didn’t see any. I don’t know what happened except that the damage seemed bad but not awful. I kept driving. Eventually, I came to a stop in front of my tiny house, on G-row, in the middle of 20 other tiny houses, in a 12-acre RV park. The night grew still as the engine cooled. I sat for ten minutes until  the cold seeped into my bones.  When I could not sit any longer, I went inside and made eggs for dinner.  Very few days cannot be improved by a plate of scrambled eggs, a cold glass of water, and warm buttered sourdough toast.

It’s the seventh day of the ninety-sixth month of My Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.