This morning I woke up thinking about falling in love. I'm not sure if it was the end notes of a dream or the cozy feeling of coming off three nights spent alone with Beloved and no little angel, but I woke up with that feeling in my throat of the first time someone says, "I think I love you."

A few minutes ago, I read Schmutzie's post on happiness, and I thought about waking up to thinking about love. My husband and I ran into a college kid on our recent trip, and the kid asked if we were married. "Almost twelve years," I said. And this kid, who up to this point had been bragging about getting 98 percent in a class without ever having cracked the book's spine and getting laid the night before glanced over with utter sincerity and said, "That's cool. That really makes me happy, that you guys have been together so long."

Well, son, I'm glad I restored your faith in humanity. Because let me tell you, being in love -- long-term love -- is awesome. It usually feels a little different than the falling-in-love, though, and that's a tough one to swallow. Falling in love lasts, what, a few months at best? Being in love -- now that's a different story. That can last forever.

There are ways to tap into that first-few-months feeling, though. I spent years thinking about that feeling while I was single and realized part of falling in love is getting to know a new person, but if I'm honest with myself, part of falling in love is finding a new audience for your tired old stories, a new person to feel new around. Part of falling in love is feeling interesting again.

Part of falling in love is falling in love with yourself.

Maybe that's part of why artists and performers and writers are so crazy about our work. Creating something new is like getting to tell your stories again, maybe even stories you just learned yesterday, stories you didn't even know you knew. Or maybe they are old stories but nobody yet has received them quite the way you were hoping for.

Falling in love, I think, has little to do with falling in love in the conventional sense.

Falling in love, I think, is being able to tap into the part of you that finds yourself still interesting after all these years.

Turn it up. Relax into it. Happy Thanksgiving.

This past week has been extremely draining for me. Yesterday morning I was in such a dark mood I actually cancelled meetings so people wouldn't have to talk to me. 

Last night, I went to an Indigo Girls concert in Kansas City. I named my first horrible and forever unpublished novel after a line in an Indigo Girls song, and I moved to Kansas City after really listening to "Least Complicated." I like a lot of music, but there are certain singer/songwriters who capture the human condition so eloquently it takes my breath away. Listening to the music last night reminded me that I have a thing that I do that can bliss me out as much as the bass player of the back-up band, The Shadow Boxers. (I wish I had taken video last night, because I have NEVER seen a bass player this jacked before. I found a video on their YouTube channel, though, because you really need the visual to understand this post.)

It wasn't just the bass player, though -- I don't know how young these guys are, but they looked a lot younger than my 38, certainly younger than Emily and Amy. And when the audience sang along to some of the Swamp Ophelia songs, the guys looked like they were getting a straight dopamine drip. The wheels turning, yes, this is what it can be like after all that hard work and heartbreak. As artists we get so few of those moments and so many of the moments of rejection and struggle. You have to bottle the good moments in your head and sip slowly so as not to use that joy up before you really, really need it.

I desperately needed that reminder last night that I can access my shot of bliss when I want to, too. I just have to sit down and search inside myself for the writing. I'm lucky and blessed that I know how to find my joy -- I just need to clear my schedule and make time for it more -- not just here, though I love writing here -- I love talking with you guys -- but the fiction. The new novel. (The second novel is with editors, it's a long story and there's too much uncertainty, which is why I never write about it. Honestly, it pains me to talk about it, because I've come so far in these past three years, but will it be far enough? I can't explain how painful and important this is to me.)

I can't remember what made me remember the poem I wrote right before I graduated from the University of Iowa OH MY GOD SEVENTEEN YEARS AGO, but I mentioned it to my friend Kristi last night in reference to some song lyric, and this morning I looked it up to see how much it sucked. It isn't my best work, but I can clearly see what I was thinking back then, so I thought I'd share it here in honor of the happy boys of The Shadow Boxers and my hope that people sing their lyrics with fervor. Good luck to you and keep loving life.

The Last Day

The last day of college collected no knowledge

different from all of the rest.

To the edge of ability

I tested virility

can't say it was the best.

The snowflakes come swirling with dreamlike unfurling,

covering the entire town.

Hot water rises with scented soap prizes

as I try to steam straight my gown.

They gave me two stars to represent wars

I fought with words and with pen.

To get their attention, attempting dissension

and failing to score in the end.

My work here is done.

My words have not won

the battles that ignorance wrought;

my lofty ambition

achieved no sedition:

I fear education is bought.

But hope will still flower

far from the tower

of ivory I've never seen --

thoughts of the younger

still here will blunder

and sleep in the places I've been.

And then while I was searching the Mac for "places I've been," I found this other one also detailing my obsession with other people who have lived where I've lived. What are their stories? Do they wonder about mine? What do we leave behind? A song? A poem? A smile?

Places We've Been

Lofted bunk on a college campus

somewhere in the Middle West,

I carved my initials in the closet

near where you rest your head.

First-floor walk-up in Chicago,

the corner of Clark and Halsted streets,

no parking, disposal or air conditioning --

do you find it had to sleep?

Historic building in Kansas City,

the very first space I called my own,

I taped poems to the cabinets

and never answered the phone.

Haven't built a house, always filled a space

vacated by somebody else.

I smell you, sometimes, before I drop off

to sleep, in the places you've been.

Today's a tough day. Hang in there, Aurora. Everyone go find your bliss -- every day is a gamble and a gift.