I had a normal day yesterday. Which, at first, felt a little disorienting.

Because I couldn’t remember the last time.

I had a normal day.

Over the past few years, life’s jungle gym has seen me swing from moving my mom into assisted living, to making it through a pandemic, to ending a nine-plus year relationship, to moving mom into another assisted living community, to selling and emptying the family house of forty years, to laying my head down in fifteen different places in three months, to finally settling in one place.

Three months ago.

In Oklahoma City.

I’m not complaining about my life. And I’m not trying to make myself out to have an unusually difficult life. As is so often said these days (and is certainly very true), we all have a lot going on.

I’m just saying that it was unbelievably wonderful yesterday.

To have a normal day.

By normal, I mean a day of no extremes. A day where I didn’t feel like I was recovering from one thing. Or preparing for something else.

I had no lists yesterday. No goals. Though I stayed active and moving through the day.

I read a book that’s been lying around for months. Tried a new restaurant for dinner. Talked with an old friend on the phone. Went for a few walks. Listened to some new jazz.

You know.

Normal stuff.

From sunrise to sunset, I kept pace with the day

Never falling behind on the hours. But never trying to hold onto them either.

Instead, I was just exquisitely, joyfully and gratefully.

Present.

In the gift of each and every normal.

Moment.

It was such a great day, yesterday’s normal day.

That I think I’ll have another one.

Today.

The Practice of Being Alive is a collection of stories about getting through this thing called life.