I had to go and find this passage a friend noted a while ago:

“It had seemed like the beginning of happiness, and Clarissa is still sometimes shocked, more than thirty years later, to realize that it was happiness; that the entire experience lay in a kiss and a walk, the anticipation of dinner and a book. The dinner is by now forgotten; Lessing has been long overshadowed by other writers; and even the sex, once she and Richard reached that point, was ardent but awkward, unsatisfying, more kindly than passionate. What lives undimmed in Clarissa’s mind more than three decades later is a kiss at dusk on a patch of dead grass, and a walk around a pond as mosquitoes droned in the darkening air. There is still that singular perfection, and it’s perfect in part because it seemed, at the time, so clearly to promise more. Now she knows: That was the moment, right then. There has been no other.”
-Michael Cunningham in The Hours

I was taking a shower after work, and after I don’t know how long, finally had the feeling again that despite all that isn’t perfect, despite those things I often think about, this is everything, everything to me, and nothing could be more wonderful.  Usually that only comes, paradoxically and by mistake, in hindsight.

The next closest I have was over a month ago.  We were staying in West Yellowstone and going on ski trips up long, unvisited drainages.  One evening we went on a walk down a snowmobile track and were talking effectively about day-to-day things.  The stars were extremely bright.  And right before coyotes started howling, howls in gradations of distance and clarity as they reached us from all over the upper Madison basin, I felt it was amazing to stand where we were.  The realization “I am here,”  this is where I am right now.  Incredible.

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