I feel tired and peaceful.
My breath is apparent – the deep breathing of having just woken up in the morning and being dangerously close to being pulled back into sleep.
Rosie is on the window ledge watching the birds sing on the telephone wires while Mary Oliver and her poetry sit beside me for company. I have warm chai to drink on the night table and I am wrapped up in a blanket that my dear friend painstakingly knit for me.
I am uncertain about the direction in life I am going in. On the edge of my periphery I am reminded of the fragility of life – a girl has a malignant brain tumor and while her three beautiful children are at home unawares, her whole brain is radiated. A second cousin of mine has breast cancer that has now spread to her bones, her liver, her lungs…They are both in their thirties.
The fragility of life.
The idea that I have to leave a legacy of some kind.
However, I don’t want to work on my legacy this morning. I want to do the laundry and organ my papers and drawers. There is a strange calmness to paperwork in the mornings, call me crazy.
I wish to write the things that all people believe and need to read but that which are hard to say out loud. Has everything been written already? Do I have anything to add?
The cats are on the windowsill and they smell like maple syrup.