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You are an excellent writer.

It's funny how these few words, which Aaron said off-hand and out-of-context of anything writing-related, make me feel like I'm worth a million bucks every time I recall them. I think I am a good and capable writer. But excellent? That seems a bit overdrawn, especially when it's spoken out loud.

Maybe it's because I don't hear him say those words often. Not to say that Aaron isn't complimentary, as he is one of the most sincere compliment-givers I know, and he tells me often about what he appreciates. But he doesn't usually talk about what I do, which is write.

It's my job to write.
It's my second job to write.
And it's second nature to me, and to him, to just assume that it is and not think about why or how or what if my just is wasn't any longer. In my head, it's this imperfect metaphor: sometimes writing's like sweeping the floor. You don't think about how someone sweeps the floor when it's done well. It just is. 


And so this got me thinking about the invisible, important things in my life. I don't think about my ears not hurting or my back not aching or my parents' good health or my husband's dedication to his passion because it just is. And I don't always offer up a silent "thank you" for these things that just are. But maybe I should.


I sometimes feel that vocalizing the good things might make them go away quicker. Jinx them or something. I want to be cognizant of this especially when it comes to recognizing everything that just is. For the friendships that mean so much to me that just are. For health. For my family. For my upbringing. For my sister's texts in the afternoons that make me laugh. For food in the refrigerator. For the driver of the car who stopped at the red light. For all of those things that just are.

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