I waken gently from a dream of wildflowers blowing on the hillside. Murgatroid’s soft paw rests against my cheek. The room is dark under the new moon. Cool air lifts the gauzy curtain at the window, graceful specter. I lie still a few minutes, save for my hands, stepping slowly from crown chakra to base. The rejuvenating warmth of Reiki fills my body, energizing.
Careful not to waken Cheyenne, I slip from the covers. Murgatroid The Cat pads ahead of me to the kitchen where I clean and fill first her bowls with fresh food and water, then the kettle for tea.
While the water heats, I wash and dry my face in the lav just off the kitchen. I breathe deeply in the folds of the soft, absorbent towel. The scents of home-grown cotton and indigo dye are faint but present after many washings. Gratitude wells in me, as it does every morning, for this simple pleasure, thanks to the unscented soaps used in the village laundry.
Tea cup in hand, I cross to the screened porch, scissor cross-legged onto cushions, and pull my drawing journal, pens, and markers from a nearby basket. Anything goes here. Anything comes. Anger. Sadness. Hurt. Joy. Laughter.
This morning, I draw spirals, lines circling in, circling out, circling in. I add shading, pattern upon pattern, engrossed in the repetition, differences emerging, ever-changing, ever the same, like a river, like life.