It is Tuesday and cold and grey. Rain drips from the eaves and the birds are singing. Tuesday, Tyr's day, the One-handed. What shall be sacrificed for the good of all today? What boldness shall move me? What moment shall I step into and grasp hold of that which grasps hold of me?
The night has no scheduled intrusions, I will draw myself back into rhythm. Some harvest. Some reading. QiGong. Sit. Sleep. Dream. I am grateful for that.
I am grateful for the dim early and the waking into it. I am grateful somehow even for waking up hard and ready to move.