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I have lost many in the last month.
Some to lapsed billing but perhaps others think I am rolling in published author money!
(I don’t make royalties until I sell about 10k books)
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It is rare that I sleep in. Normally, I wake at a time when my artist friends are just settling in for the night. But lately, I have had the luxury of sleeping in. Later nights and some change in schedule keep me under the covers later.
My schedule isn’t the only thing changing, so has the weather. I’ve been sleeping with the window open yet still not ready to shed the extra blanket from the winter months. This makes a delicious combination. The night breeze comes in through the window, kissing any exposed limbs cool, yet the rest of our bodies are toasty under cover. Add a Northwest Spring rain, the scent of flowers blooming and the song of birds too, just waking for the day: Delicious.
I lay there wiggling my toes, not quite ready for the shock of leaving the warmth of the bed. My husband is not one to lie in bed. He sits up, sturdy and strong in the morning light. Our house is over 100 years old and small, so I can hear him as he moves down the stairs, fills up the kettle with cold water and then starts the stove for coffee.
It’s then I decide, I’d like to time my bed departure for when the coffee is ready. The back door dings and I know he has gone outside for a few puffs on a cigar while he waits for the water to boil.
Next my son’s bed begins to creak. I hear their door click open, the shuffle of their feet down the hall, and then the weight of their body as they plod down the stairs. During the day, it is easy to tell their movements apart. One nearly vibrates with intensity as he moves through rooms and hallways, the other, steady and methodic, sometimes nearly stealth-like. But in those early moments, they sound the same, making their way down to the bathroom for that first flush of the day.
When I hear that both boys are up, I cannot stay in bed any longer, for now all I love are up and awake. I don’t want to miss the party or at least that short window when my teen sons are still squishy and not quite awake where they welcome sleepy snuggles and hugs.
All this to remind me that this is home and how did I ever get so lucky to build this together with that cigar puffing man outside. I’m rich.
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Quick paced, happy workshop.
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Get out of writer’s block by being in conversation with literature you already love.
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You have a wonderful way with words, my friend.
And thanks for the Seurat painting; I've seen A Sunday on La Grande Jatte twice at the Art Institute in Chicago--it never ceases to amaze me.
I think I'm not supposed to (because of "second-hand smoke" and all that), but I love the sexy (dare I say "manly") smell of a cigar outdoors.