Member-only story
My Bunny Cup
On following your delight
It’s morning in the San Francisco Bay Area. The view out my living room window is of oak, redwood, and pine trees layered on the Oakland foothills behind a row of sweet Mediterranean bungalows with red-tiled roofs and handmade brick chimneys.
A bunny cup sits at the top right corner of the tiny desk I appropriated from a side table in the living room. The table is short enough that my shoulder doesn’t hurt when I type.
For some reason, no dining table or desk in my entire household is short enough, and for some crazy reason, even the expensive Steelcase chair I finally sprang for — feeling it would solve all my troubles — doesn’t go high enough to compensate for the high-ness of the tables and desks. And then, when I manage to approximate something close to functional, I find my feet are swinging a couple of inches off the floor. Then, it’s time to rustle up a stack of books that inevitably slip-slide around… until I give up.
Such is the life of the writer. Or this one, anyway.
Actually, it’s shocking how trivial are the reasons I don’t write, when writing makes me so happy.
It’s a kind of self-punishment.
Suleika Jaouad pulled me out of my current slump this morning with her incredible bright take on life, with her generosity…
