Tuesday Morning

It is 6:30 Tuesday morning. I have hunkered down on a meditation cushion in front of my now blazing wood stove not for the purpose of meditation, but with laptop at hand, in order to confess. I didn't write a thing yesterday. It completely got away from me. I reviewed some of my writing, I organized my journal, I corresponded with friends (sort of writing), but that's it.

From where I sit two feet from the fire, I can see the outlines of the treetops, junipers, scrub oaks and ponderosa pines, outside the windows of the "east wing" and the hills beyond framing a backdrop for the trees. The outline begins in a faint yellow and fades to greenish-blue then to grey. A tiny pop of orange settles low on the horizon. The sun is just considering coming up. I can hear the crackle of my fire and the hum of its fan as it blows out a gentle stream of warmth that brushes over my busy hands and caresses my cheeks and my slightly stuffy nose. My daughter's phone alarm went off a few minutes ago, briefly belting out a song which she quickly silenced. One of my dogs, recently released into the morning, barks at an unseen animal and my kitchen clock ticks, ticks, ticks.

My computer and my fire are the only true illumination in the room right now. Their glow touches on aspects of my furniture bringing them into ghostly focus. My cats roam silently and companionably nearby occasionally touching my arm or my leg, nibbling on a toe, adding to the feeling of hovering friendly spirits.