…or afternoon. Hung out kitchen rugs and a comforter to dry in the morning. By afternoon I checked them, not dry yet, and there is still dew on the grass. Damp outside, everywhere. The Boy is still sick with a croupy cold, and Mr. Husband can’t shake that virus, but is heading back to work Monday anyway, after two weeks at home trying to recuperate. Everyone is under the weather, even when the weather itself has been lovely. Colds and flu abound — be careful when you ask for abundance. You might get it.
I’m drinking cinnamon hot chocolate instead of tea or coffee, just for a change. I made this batch of instant mix and it is lovely in the morning or afternoon. The Boy agrees. It is sunny but cold out and I have been wandering from room to room, listless and wanting to do but too unrested to accomplish much. I’ve found, in these weeks off work, that morning is my best creative time, and that afternoon suits me better for resting, reading and quiet thought. Dinner revs me up for another hour or so, and then I’m ready to read and sleep. I aim to rise earlier to enjoy the dark productivity, the dawn of the day, early silence, until the noon hour brings an end to that part of my day. This is (should be) my quiet time and I am not resting, but writing, to combat restlessness. Waiting for the aches to seep back and ground me a little longer. Hot chocolate cures much — but not all.
Tomorrow brings a party to which I will not go, a pot of soup I hope to make, a few rows of knitting I’d like to finish, and shirts to be ironed. If I get the shirt ironed, I’ll call it a good day. The soup will rest in the fridge till I have the time to chop and stir.
Chop and stir. I like those words.
photo credit: self; Sierra sugar pinecones in fall sunlight