I can see myself becoming addicted to being at home again if I keep this up. As I write, I am warming my toes after an arduous trek through the impassable driveway with 50 pounds of storage gear. The sun is out (ironic isn't it?) chickadees are twittering in the giant blue spruce while I am tucked into bed to stave off illness. My writing desk holds a box of Cheez-its, my mango peach fuse and a host of material I am supposed to be transcribing. I can also fit a remote caddy in the lapdesk. The remotes opperate the radio and the ceramic heater. It holds the cell phone as well. And at this vantage (broadcasting14.25 inches high above the bustling metropolis of dustbunnydom) I can see outside and know when the mailman, the plow guy and the men in white coats are coming. I'm freezing and I can't feel my heels, but I have the world at my fingertips.
Flippant as I am, I have to say that I am thankful to have somewhere to live even though it is so far from perfect as to need to be condemned. And while I am not satisfied to have to be scrambling to pay my bills and constantly on the brink of total ruin, I have to find moments of pure happiness. A few moments given ones self in bliss restores the vital energy required to look another bleak day in the face. Anyone who would deny his or her fellow human being any gift of restorative power should be ashamed of themselves.