January Twelve

For the Happiness Project of January I am supposed to write 31 poems. One poem a day. I came up with the prompts and I challenged myself to write without sharing them, mostly to give myself the freedom of speech. I also figured I could go without outside affirmation. This is how it's been going.

One:

Two: I wrote the poem for number one.

Three: I wrote the poem for number two.

Four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven:

Twelve: I wrote the poems for all the days except eleven and twelve. Maybe I'll catch up later tonight.

I discovered a couple side effects. Turns out I thrive on accountability for poetry--not to myself, but others. I will be starting early on my resolutions, it seems. One of them is growing in maturity and I think that could also mean being responsible to one's self. I am relieved to see I am still capable of failure. The other side effect: I love the dopamine high that I get from writing a poem. I think I work with that energy by sharing the writing and by cutting that off, I am left with this high and it isn't particularly comfortable.

I read DopamineNation the other day and I've been thinking about it almost constantly, in everything I do or feel. I'm trying to let this uncomfortable feeling just be. I don't need to do anything with it.

The husband and I are doing good. We are healthy, the dog is healthy--a bout of the chocolate vomits seem to have done no harm. I am working two days a week at Yoder's in the deli/sandwich department. Please do not ask me about any bulk items. I don't know anything about that. I know I work here, I'm sorry, I'm helpless. I'd love to have you over for tea and a talk, or we can both read or whatever you like to do. Maybe someone can help me decorate my house. I'm awful at that. Making food is easier than decorating. I'll make food for you if you decorate my house.

The weather is being frightful and I am charmed. Low degrees, dipping into freezing, rain, snow, rain again, sleet, oh my. All the delights. The only hair in my soup is the days of low energy and mild despair, where I am convinced I have seasonal depression. I guess I need the sunshine and Vitamin D just doesn't give the same warmth.

I'm reading The Waves by Virginia Woolf. I bought the physical copy because I vowed no e-books this year. It's fascinating. I'm only halfway through; I haven't gotten to the end so I can't spoil it for you. She's written it in dreamy prose; only dialogue. So far I like the beginning parts better than any of the parts I'm in now. Children, you know. Innocent, sleepy, dreamy, with a sharp edge of cheddar.

I need to dump out the forgotten lavender drink, clean the table off(the lily is blooming in the bouquet of flowers The Husband gifted to me), change the laundry batches.

Good night.