It’s my birthday, and it was normal. I worked, I tossed Roby in the air, I had steak for dinner, we drank a nice beer that was fancy enough to be more like wine, I fixed a barn door, I gave some cake to the chickens, I listened to sad music, I listened to happy music, I went on a walk long enough that I lost track of time and made Abby late, I got my feet dirty, I made a plan, I sent emails, I started a fire, I texted more friends than usual, I didn’t watch a movie, I read a very lovely letter, very lovely.

It was a normal day, but it felt special.

I’m not one for special occassions, birthday or vacations. I’d rather put the work that a trip away from home might require, into my home itself. I want to improve my home so much that I don’t want to leave, and that’s how I am today, I don’t want to leave. I’ve succeeded.

I didn’t leave my house on my birthday, and nobody visited, and this felt exactly right.