This morning, like every morning, I woke up early, sometime before the sun, and went to the kitchen to fumble around with the coffee pot. In the kitchen the sink overflowed with dishes from last night's dinner party, white foam still coating the inside of the measure cup we use to heat and froth milk for our stovetop espresso. Looking at the jumble of breakables I couldn't help but feel satisfied and discouraged simultaneously, so I crept back to the bedroom holding a sleeping husband and slipped into my favorite warm, chunky sweater, jeans, and flats, and grabbed my camera for a little walk and treat.
As it turned out, the sun and I made our entrance into the world at the same time today and it very kindly warmed my back against the chilly air as I walked around our downtown neighborhood, winding my way from our apartment to the water, past the cafes slowly filling with Sunday morning wanderers like myself, and up the hill leading to the neon sign that promises fresh, local donuts and hot, strong coffee mixed with sweetly steamed milk. I took pictures along the way, reaquainting myself with the click of my camera, it's been too long really, not just for writing here, but for photographs, and writing, and listening to music with no purpose in mind.
I wanted to take a picture for you that would somehow make sense of how simple, and plain, and ordinary this morning was, but in the same breath, how perfect, and wonderful, and exact this morning, the warm sun, the cold, crisp air, the dogs lining the sidewalks outside the cafes, the birds on the wire; I wanted to find a way to tell you that everything is just as it was, and yet, so much better.
I'm two weeks into the new quarter now, and I think I've found a rhythm that will allow me the time to enter this space fully again, not just guilty bits of type meant to ease my worry that I haven't posted in ages. The work load, or really, I should say reading load, this quarter is quite grand, but really lovely at the same time.
There are bits of cheese left over on a plate in the living room and empy wine glasses and water carafes on the table, most of a lime tart in the fridge, and that leftover feeling of laughing that comes when your muscles spent so much time clenched with joy the night before that they are still somehow anticipating their revival to motion, their calling to laugh again. For now, I'm going to let the dishes and the husband sleep just where they are and take my coffee to the couch with a book and the sun.