My “happy place” used to be this orange chair. It was covered in corduroy, just wide enough for B and I to sit snuggled side-by-side, nestled into a corner of his parents’ living room. Whenever we sat there, the kids would be running around, crawling all over us, and the kettle would be whistling, and everything in general would just be all right.

I still love that chair, but.

The place we stayed, the night of our wedding and the night after – that’s the new place I go, when I’m meditating and I need to “find my happy place.” I imagine I’m there, lying under a white canvas canopy, the overhanging leaves casting dappled shadows on the fabric, the breeze gently whispering through the open windows and the tent swaying ever so gently. The feel of smooth, worn wood underneath my bare feet. Stretching and meditating and eating breakfast on our little balcony overlooking the woods. Eating simple, beautiful things like local yogurt and blueberries and lavender and honey and stealing giggly glances at B as if I’d never seen him before. We knew things about each other we hadn’t known the day before. There were no secrets or reservations. Just the golden light filtering into our tent, kissing our skin and shining on our eyes. It was a New Light. We both looked different. More human, and less. A little fey. A little wild. Clean and silly and free as two faeries.

My happy place.

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