This morning, later than usual, old Sophie lay snoozing in her fleecy nest, when I peeked over the foot of my bed to make sure she was still breathing. She was and she opened a sleepy eye at the sound of me. Instead of leaping from my bed, flinging open the curtains, grabbing my notebook and pen, I followed Sophie’s routine. A lazy, full bodied yawn; a measured, languid stretching of her spine from head to shoulders to tail to pads of her feet – her yoga move of graceful realignment; then cautious stepping across slippery places on the kitchen floor; another unhurried stretch on the back deck; finally, sniffing the air before trekking out across old, crunchy snow.
Well, I didn’t do the sniffing and trekking part.
Instead, I thanked my French press for its faithfulness to our morning ritual, changing cold water and inert grounds into steaming ambrosia with exotic names: Sumatran, Italian, Kona blend, Colombian. Standing at the door sans notebook, pen or camera, sipping that first cup of waking up, transfixed I watched ice crystals gathered along every branch of the naked birch tree dance in celebration of this new day.
Well, I didn’t do the sniffing and trekking part.
Instead, I thanked my French press for its faithfulness to our morning ritual, changing cold water and inert grounds into steaming ambrosia with exotic names: Sumatran, Italian, Kona blend, Colombian. Standing at the door sans notebook, pen or camera, sipping that first cup of waking up, transfixed I watched ice crystals gathered along every branch of the naked birch tree dance in celebration of this new day.
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