It feels so normal to be here—as though every piece of this place is knit into my very fabric.  The squish of the mud under my toes, the gnarled roots on the path.  I walk this path as though I have walked it every day of my life.  The view out my cabin window seems ancient to me, as though I have looked out this window and seen these cedars, these pines for hundreds of years, the row boats rocking at the dock, the kayaks pulled up on the lawn. 

 It feels to normal to hear the calls of these children.  It feels so normal to kiss this child who is not mine but runs wild like him into the house for a treat.  It feels as though this is the life I should be living.   It feels so normal to sit around this fire, snuggled with my wine.  As though I have been sitting here every night watching fire flies and gazing up at the waxing moon. From the moment we arrived it has felt as though we have always been here.  As though the slam of the wooden screen door and the pop of the sparklers and the delighted giggles and screams is the entire soundtrack of my life.


Here the miraculous seems normal and the normal seems miraculous.  Here.

One Response to “Normal”

  1. Jennifer Ballantyne Says:

    What a beautiful piece Meg, once again you have written in such a way that reaches out and touches me. I adore the photo by the way. Hugs J xxx