Leaning in my chair, mind wandering. The work load waits. There is a peaceful addiction to perusing blogs, so I go there. For hours. Finding a new writer, a quilter, perhaps a dreamer or a star gazer makes me happy. I use my bookmark. I return.
And then a surprise – a new blogger (for me) who lists the vanilla yearas preferred reading! I did not know that people still stopped by. I have been caught up in my grief and misery and malcontented-ness for what seems a very long time. Like a box turtle, I’ve pulled my head into my shell and rested, wanting little to do with the world around me.
That is not to say that I have avoided creating. Just that my pace has slowed to a quiet simmer. And it’s all good. I accept that I need to be exactly where I am.
My son brought the bulldog over to stay for the week that he is away. The house, which was so quiet with Harley’s passing suddenly brims with life and toenails and slobbery kisses. At night, the portion of the bed that I am afforded is ridiculously tiny – caught between the honking snores of Oscar’s hulk and the stretched out gumby-dog Tula who whistles in her sleep. When Andrew returns and fetches his beast I intend to sleep for two days straight.
I have many images to share – I promise.