I have a sticker that says "My Happy Place," and I kept it for a while, wondering where to put it. In the end, I stuck it near my desk so I could see it while I write. I am usually happy when I'm writing.

On Monday, however, I was not happy. I had a major technology breakdown, and I had no idea what I had done wrong. As it turned out, I had done nothing wrong (which is rare, when it comes to technology). Microsoft had a failure that lasted for almost two hours. During the technology breakdown, I had an accompanying emotional breakdown. For two hours, I was not in my happy place.

Only after it was over did I look back on the experience and realize how easy all this annoying technology makes my life every day.

I've heard of writers who use old typewriters, or write entire novels by hand, and then type them up on their computers. They even have a device that only lets you see a couple of lines at a time and has no access to the internet. I guess this is because some writers consider the internet an obstacle to writing. This seems very silly to me. Without the internet, how would I know that avenues run perpendicular to streets and that lanes can run in either direction? How would I find funny cat videos?

I hear writers complain that they would get more done if they were in a cabin in the woods like Henry David Thoreau, but they forget Thoreau had somebody copying his manuscript for him and his sister bringing him lunch every day. All our imaginings of how the past might have been better for writing are romantic nonsense. Right now, at my little desk, I know I have it better than any previous generation of writers ever has.

I had a chance once to see an original manuscript written by Charles Dickens. It was behind glass, and I no longer remember which novel it was. But it was thrilling to see, in his handwriting, how he had come up with his stories, just like anyone else.

And like anyone who writes, he had circled sentences and entire paragraphs and drawn an arrow to where he wanted them moved. Of course, this was all done with a goose-quill pen. It must have taken Dickens a long time to finish anything, even if he got some help. I wondered if he would have written more if he'd had a computer. My hunch is that we would have at least one more novel by Dickens if he'd had word processing.

Now, a lot of people are concerned about how artificial intelligence might replace writers. I am not terribly worried. I suspect AI will be another tool -- like word processing. It's unimaginable to us now, but we'll learn it and then wonder how we ever got along without it.

I don't think we'll give computers the job of telling stories because we like telling stories too much. Telling stories to one another is about the most human thing there is. A story comes from one person and is told to another person. We've been figuring out ways to do this since we were gathered around a fire. I don't think anything will stop us -- no matter how much that storytelling changes.

In the meantime, I'll keep writing. Microsoft sent me a nice note explaining that what happened on Monday was their fault. I'm thinking of having it framed -- and hanging it in my happy place.

Till next time,

Carrie

Photos and other news can be found at CarrieClasson.com.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION

I like taking photos when I'm out of the country.

Photographing things in Mexico is effortless. I'll never understand the nuances of every festival or ritual, but I can enjoy the pageantry and the color and the incredible effort and artistry that goes in to creating so much beauty.

Then I come back up north and look at the mud. It's a big change.

The skies were overcast for the first five days after my return from Mexico. The temperatures were unseasonably low. There was some rain. There might even have been some snow, if you count the white, pelletlike things that dotted the sidewalk. Maybe it was sleet. Maybe it doesn't matter.

"What is this?" I asked an innocent passerby. He shook his head disapprovingly.

"I have no idea."

And I realized that I was terribly spoiled. Taking pictures in Mexico took no skill at all. I decided I needed to start taking pictures right here at home.

The first day was not a great success. The sun stayed stubbornly behind a cloud. The few blooms that were out had been nipped by the frost. I took a photo of some branches against the gray sky and a carved stone pillar covered in green lichen. The lichen was vivid green after sleeping all winter. The lichen seemed about as happy as lichen can be, and so I figured I could make more of an effort.

The next day I happened upon some crocuses forcing their way through the muddy soil. The crocus is not a showy flower, but their sheer numbers were amazing. I found a handful of daffodils blooming in a spot where they caught the occasional bit of sunshine.

The third day was colder than ever. I headed out the door for my walk and turned right around, went inside and put on warmer clothes. The sky was dark in the middle of the afternoon. I photographed a hydrangea, left over from the previous year, bleached and brittle, shaking in the chill wind.

I wanted to photograph one of the oldest houses in the neighborhood through the fence, but a row of garbage cans was in the way. I contorted into a strange position, and a woman walking by looked at me curiously.

"I'm trying to take pictures," I told her, "even on the gloomy days."

"Well, this is a good house to photograph when it's gloomy!" she replied. The house looked menacing under the heavy clouds.

On Sunday, I went to church. A new pastor had been hired while I was in Mexico, and he preached a good sermon. The choir was especially strong. And, sometime in the middle of the service, a little bit of sun crept out. I looked up and saw the stained glass.

"Oh, look," I thought. "Finally, some color."

After the service, I climbed the wooden stairs to the balcony, and I looked through the vibrant stained glass. It was all the color I had been missing since coming back from Mexico.

And I felt a lot better.

I'm not sure if the new minister would approve, but those windows did more for my soul than his sermon and the beautiful music put together. Those windows gave a sermon of their own. Those windows lifted my spirits and made me remember how much unseen beauty there is -- all the time.

They reminded me that it's not what I'm looking at that matters -- it's what I'm looking through. Looking through eyes trained to see beauty, I see beauty everywhere.

I left the church, thanking the windows on my way out.

Till next time,

Carrie

Photos and other news can be found at CarrieClasson.com.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION

The TSA agent looked stern -- as they usually do.

"I'd like to look inside this bag, ma'am," he said.

"No problem!"

I always sound a little too eager when being questioned by an authority figure. I'm trying so hard to prove I have nothing to hide that I sound like I must have something to hide.

The agent proceeded to open my carry-on bag.

"It's a bowl!" I told him, with a little too much enthusiasm.

My husband, Peter, was supposed to have put the bowl in his checked luggage, but at the last minute he became concerned it might break. It was a large ceramic bowl we were bringing back from Mexico, and we've had ceramic stuff break in the past.

"Why don't you put it in your carry-on?" Peter asked, after I was already more or less packed.

"That big bowl in my carry-on?" I was dubious.

"I think it will be safer. I can take whatever you had planned to put in your carry-on."

So I took the bowl, already wrapped up in bubble wrap, and put it in my carry-on, and now the TSA agent wanted to take a look at it. Of course, it wasn't empty.

We had a lot of little things to bring back from Mexico after three months, and Peter had stuffed who-knows-what into the bowl before wrapping it in bubble wrap. So when the agent asked me what was in the bowl, I looked bewildered -- which was not the look I was going for when being inspected by this serious agent.

"Peter!" I hissed. "What's in the bowl?"

"Food!" Peter replied.

"Food?" the agent asked.

Oh, great, I thought. Now this agent is going to be thinking we're bringing in a ham or something. We know the rules of what can and cannot come into the country. But some things are a little vague. Meat is out. Cheese is OK. Some fruits and vegetables are out. It's confusing, and I was worried that whatever Peter had put in the bowl might cause issues.

"Yup!" Peter said, apparently unworried. Well, it was my luggage after all, I thought.

The TSA agent proceeded to unwrap the bowl, tearing off the packing tape and taking a lot of time with the whole procedure. We had a connecting flight, and I was getting nervous, so I smiled even more broadly. At this point I was as curious as the agent to discover what was inside the bowl I had been blithely smuggling into the country.

Inside the bowl were several suspicious-looking bags. Inside the bags were lentils, chickpeas, chia seeds and shelled pumpkin seeds. The TSA agent looked up at Peter.

"Bunny food," he said. I couldn't tell if he was mocking Peter or simply making an official identification.

He wrapped the whole thing back up in the bubble wrap, and we went on our way.

"Bunny food!" I said to Peter, as we finally headed away from security.

We got home late. It was cold and rainy and so different from the sunny Mexico we had just left behind. In the morning, we learned we had both gained almost 10 pounds. Everything seemed a little dreary.

I unwrapped the brightly colored bowl. It looked wonderful in our apartment. I put Peter's bags of seeds on the counter for his morning breakfast.

I was glad we brought these things back from Mexico. As we get used to gray skies and cool temperatures up north, we need the comfort of a little extra color. And we certainly need a little extra bunny food.

Till next time,

Carrie

Photos and other news can be found at CarrieClasson.com.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION