Awakening early, I quietly snuck to the kitchen to start the coffee, and then put the final stitches in my shawl. I will block it later this morning and the anticipation of watching the pattern come fully into its promise is both exciting and sad. Like watching a wounded bird whom you have nursed back to health take flight.
After weaving in the ends, I poured myself a fresh cup of coffee, put on my shoes and coat, and opened the door on the crisp, cool morning. Mornings are like a clean slate. Everything is fresh. The air seems to be cleaner, somehow. Not used up and breathed out without even noticing it's delicious flavor by the rest of the world. Leisurely walking down the hill, I looked off towards the mountains which were shrouded in a silky mist. It seemed they were beckoning to me to come and explore what lay beneath their misty cover. My footsteps were all of a sudden muffled and I glanced down to see a pink blanket of fallen apple blossoms covering the sidewalk. The tree was behind a stone wall, but created a canopy over the walkway. The old house beyond must have hundreds of stories to tell.
It is a holiday and all the shops are closed, excepting the one for which I set out. The bakery. It is full this morning with hungry customers. My order is large, for we have our first overnight guests and that makes me happy. I enjoyed cleaning yesterday in anticipation of their arrival. Of creating a comfortable place for them after their long journey. And now I wait for the house and all the people to awaken. The birds are singing as only they do at the break of a new day. It reminds me of cheerful chatter between friends.
I cherish these rare quiet moments. They renew and fill me with fresh hope.