I used to fear the world normal. As in a normal life, a normal weekend, doing normal things.
Normal seemed to spell death. I was, after all, special and different, so normal was not something that could ever appeal to me.
Normal meant things like washing the car and gardening. It was for sad people who had let their dreams die and then been sucked into a life that was nothing more than waiting to die.
You get the picture.
Yesterday, I visited my almost house-bound father and sat and talked with him. Afterward, I walked with my wife into our local town and bought two chunky sweaters. We had coffee in a coffee shop.
Today, we walked into the same town this morning and bought some shopping. I came home and watched my team — Hearts — get hammered by Celtic on the TV. On the pitch, really, but I watched it on TV.
Laura and I ate dinner and then sat and talked about our children for a while. She is now in the bath and I’m writing this.
I’m sure I’ve described a fairly normal weekend. And I love it. I love spending time with my wife and I love doing simple things like walking and talking.
A lot of this is to do with acceptance and the ability to be present rather than wait for the next big thing or to chase the next shiny thing or to moan about the very things that actually make me content.
And I am content. In fact, I’m happy.
Normal is the new nirvana.