Jack back from his camping mission and away, and now home with me.  Relaxing, talking to me after I get back from Oliver’s, telling me stories while I arrange a new office in the master bedroom.

The concept behind this loft, condo, changing.  More simplicity, more WRITING.  Enough distractions… this desk, the one the Nurse sent me the picture of days ago now on the third floor, in OUR room. She excited for me sends me sweet messages telling me to enjoy, make it my own, and I am.

In the Nook now, hearing some loud bird and traffic on Windsor River Road behind me, so at ease getting confirmation that the NEW SALES STORY is about to start.  First note… Slow: Pace is PEACE.  Then I type another quickly.

Minimalist inlets in my thinking this afternoon, taking self to dinner at the Chinese spot on the corner and messaging silly things with the Nurse, eager to have the kids home, Mom and Dad and Nurse over for a family night.  I can’t complain.

About a thing.

Some want to point out what they think I do wrong, and I applaud them.  Stubborn and set in their stubbornness and misery, which is entirely an option, the one they chose.

How can I not celebrate this freedom, this new draft of SELF.  The prompt for yesterday and today in the BED journal dealing with LOVE, and Self-Love.  B both pages done.  And studying my own notes and new convictions and understandings of who this FREED Mike Madigan is.

Why did it take me so long to get here?  Probably a futile entertainment, no it is, but I have to ask myself.  Like, Mike… what did you do for the last 44 fucking years?

Agitate myself asking it like that, but let me calm down.  Yeah, why did it take 40+4 years?

Well, I’m here. And I’m FINALLY living.  FREE.  Happy, grateful, and ALIVE.

I AM…. ME.

Finally.

Celebrating my own poetry.