The 8 o’clock hour. If I am to make or break this day, it’s decided in the 8 o’clock hour.
I crack open an eye to get my bearings.
When the sky is still thick, before the sun clears away the mist. The world is silent. The shutter is cracked open just enough for me to see the day. The window faces west, and a soft glow comes through the pinpricks. Good morning, world.
In my fluffy robe and socks I feel like a human-sized stuffed animal as I pad out to my little spot next to the window that overlooks the garden.
This morning, the sun kisses the trees and houses. The sun drips through pine branches and makes them look illuminated from within. The ground hasn’t been touched by sunlight yet, and the remaining leaves are painted a dull purple. Ferns fan out in a beautifully random spread, and the grass looks a deep turquoise-green. Dusted with a gentle frost, the ground looks like a delicate still life.
I stir some honey into coconut milk for my morning treat. It’s a rich soothing comfort to my empty grumbling stomach.
From my little window, this is all mine.
My fingers itch, and I smile to myself.
It’s time to write.
Today is made.