|Photo credit: Flickr|
My cat looks like he has been airbrushed by someone who illustrates absurd children's books.
The beauty of Northern New Mexico in the early morning cannot be overstated. Our sky is like a gasp followed by a Hallelujah and yet I still stay inside because it's cold and I am lazy and sore. If the sun-soaked ponderosa mountains don't call me out of my fibromyalgia hermit-hood, I suppose nothing will.
I miss the ocean when I think about it, but I almost never think about anything that I could miss. Does that mean there is something wrong with me?
I cannot sit in stillness. My legs are always tapping, my mind always roving, my fingers picking at something. But I get up in the still hours by myself so that everything else will be quiet around me, like a tranquil blanket enveloping the scurrying of one tiny mouse. That is what I do instead of meditate.
It is 7 AM Saturday morning. Everything is still quiet. Coffee is brewing. The cat has been fed. Now let the maelstrom begin.