The wipers squeak intermittently shoving the snow and freezing rain to the side. Visibility is not bad, but the roads are considering the calendar will soon promise May flowers. By afternoon, the sun hangs in the cloudless blue sky. It remains cold.
On the ride home I think of tea. Afternoon tea with soy and somedays a touch of honey. Comfort.
An empty house gives time to write. The door opens to a set of wagging tails and kitties coming in and going out. Rap music blares. Undaunted, I sit in my bedroom. The sun streams in. The wind gusts. I type words-whatever comes to mind. I am not sure I like it. Discipline is a requirement of this practice-as is letting go of control. Yet, I continue to do it, with the hope that it is doing something, anything. Everyday promises to include something worthy of our attention. Today it is the act of delicately stringing words while I sip my tea.
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