Monday, December 7


Stepping into a hot bath with ice-cold feet, so cold my toes are white, and feeling the burn of the water and the clove oil. Real, pure heaven. A stiff hot bath taken straight before bed, then crawling between flannel and wool. Brewing and sipping from two bedside cups of tea (it is that cold:) one blackberry tisane, one cardamon/rosemary (picked up in Ecuador a year ago September.)  The dog putting herself to sleep by twisting tipsy on her bed, talking to herself under her breath. Snow laying quiet outside: no more dripping eaves. The utter quiet of this old house, the full flow of years rich and silent, secrets mum. Nourishing silence. Laying in bed reading far too long, my hands growing numb. Finally putting out the light. The dog sighing, the cat scooting upstairs like a skipping stone and settling into her spot disguised as a pair of ankle-cuffs. The studio around the hall corner waiting for tomorrow's clarifications. My place to struggle each day from caterpillar to butterfly, or just to form a cocoon and sit. Feeling fully me, and still unfolding. It took so long, but I don't regret the path or the pains.

thinking of: that nun on the train, Rome, 2006, whose shoulder I looked over as she wrote:

act - be aware! - eat - drink - rest - think!
take class in --
open the door//open the wind
breathe - talk - drink - look