Up a bit early this morning. I wasn't the first one awake—Felicia's often up before me, getting a workout in—but I was the only one stirring upstairs. I went from window to window, pulling curtains and raising shades. The sun wasn't yet up, but the horizon was tinted tangerine. The mountains—Mt. Hood, in the photo above—were crisp and dark against the changing sky.
I scrambled some eggs, made some toast, and sat down. My morning routine, when I hold to it, is comforting. With breakfast I do some reading—at the moment, on Felicia's suggestion, I'm reading Wintering: The Power of Rest and Retreat in Difficult Times, by Katherine May—and then I'll do a little writing to start the day. A page or two in my journal; some reflection on how I'm feeling. A blog post, perhaps, or some progress on the week's newsletter. Then some words on my novel.
The rest of the house has usually awakened by the time I've gotten that far, if not sooner. (At the moment, I'm writing this post while Squish watches Summer Camp Island.) If it's a weekend—as with today—I might move the writing downstairs, and spend part of the morning pushing the novel further along. (First drafts always require quite a lot of pushing, at least for me.)
For the last several weeks, since the startup I worked for closed its doors, I've been enjoying some downtime. On Monday, I begin work for an exciting new startup that I've joined. Am I rested? Reset? I am both of those things.
But it's Saturday morning, and it's time for cartoons with my daughter.
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