It is Sunday morning. I hear birds outside and a lonely dog, most likely Gus, barking in the back. What lovely creatures. One of my first thoughts this morning was if I had to describe a dog to someone who never knew one I would say they long to be pet as much as possible. Like clockwork, Will woke up and came over to me for the same reason. He’s curled in bed now again, after being let out back, comfortable in a lazy Sunday morning.
The house is sleepy and I have no idea if the girls are awake. I’m happily sitting with my coffee, reading through entries and catching up on my writing. I’ve been letting it fall to the background in recent days. It was nice to come back and see it waiting for me; sentences and sentiments that felt observant and true and crafted in their flow.
I love writing so much: how a sentence can inspire me; how stringing words together feels like I’m weaving a blanket. Later I find myself wrapping up in the moment.