I'm told there are two kinds of people.
The kind that read only one book at a time in its entirety, and the kind that have a stack of books a foot high, each bookmarked in various unfinished states.
No one is more surprised than me to realize that somewhere along the way I became the kind of person with the pile of miscellaneous titles.
In my heap of collected words, phrases, sentences, and chapters (read: in my heap of books on the proverbial nightstand), there's a quote in the book Writing Down the Bones that says, "A writer's job is to make the ordinary come alive, to awaken ourselves to the specialness of simply being."
It's on the proverbial nightstand that I find so much instruction on life.
I suppose it's ordinary that husband and I find ourselves living our story here.
There are 9 million people who live here, all living out stories of their own.
And I suppose it's ordinary that when he & she have a day off together, which is not often, a walk in the city it is. But Chicago as my witness, it is anything but.
There is a specialness to meandering the city, this city, him and me.
Goldberg's choice of words "alive" and "awake" are fitting for a winter city walk-through.
Though that could be just the cold, this is Chicago.
If the cold makes you feel awake, breakfast pancakes and coffee make you feel alive.
Tell me you know this is true.
Tell me we can be friends.
Nobody needs a writer to awaken them to this.
Of the specialness of simply being. 
To simply be is oh so very lovely.
