Telling: Streams & Logs



It is 7:47 am. The dogs are fed and Watt has left with his coffee. My tea is just across the floor, the now unoccupied floor. I will go and fetch it. The timer sands have fallen, green as new leaves. I will pour my tea and then my milk, gift of the fawn colored cow. It is 7:49 am. I have one hour and 11 minutes to rouse myself, reveal and settle myself, become myself, dress myself and go out. I'm only saying this because I can't remember.

It is 7:54 am.

8:06. I'm not having the conversation I wish I was having. All pick axe and hurry. Dangerous waters I am in, so much attention to form. I think of the exercises a dancer must do to support the dance. But that's not it. It's more like building the dance studio all girders and glass and planking. It's important I know. I know it's important. But it isn't dancing.

What is the crux of this morning work and can I get to it faster? What serves? What detracts?

8:12 am. I remember my prayers. Now the night is done...
Saying the words reveals a glacial slide along my breast bone, a grinding press. I have feelings. It is 8:15.