It’s Sunday morning, and I’m delighted to be able to loll about. The sky is that brilliant blue that signals chilliness and jackets that are only worn for the first thirty minutes before you’re warmed and ready to roll.

My sweetest is at the gym, and when he’s all gymmed out and feeling pumped,
we’ll grab a bite of something and people-watch.
It’s Sunday morning, and I’m delighted to be able to loll about. The sky is that brilliant blue that signals chilliness and jackets that are only worn for the first thirty minutes before you’re warmed and ready to roll.

My sweetest is at the gym, and when he’s all gymmed out and feeling pumped,
we’ll grab a bite of something and people-watch.

This afternoon my baby and her babies will visit as the sun warms us enough for naked toes.
We’re carving a pumpkin.

Babies love to be naked. So do adults, but we’re trained against that simple joy and we’ve learned our training well.

I’ll finish a mosaic I’m working on after looking askance at it for a couple of years. It feels ready.

And I wonder how long the average person takes to complete a piece of art. How long do you look at it? How long do you breathe it in? How long does it take to meld both thought and action into one mind? And does the waiting, the considering, take more time than necessary, or the exact number of hours to blossom?

And so I’ll laugh with the babies and their babies, and then I’ll return to silence that is never the silence others anticipate, but the beautiful melding of vision to brain to possibility to creation.