Saturday, August 15th, 2015

I listened to the rain last night before I fell asleep and I woke this morning before the
birds began their soft chitter.  There's a time in the early hours when the day holds its
breath and lucky me, I hit it. Silence.
I lay pillowed in my bed next to the open window and gave my attention to the quiet. I
enjoyed the breeze over my shoulders, and in that moment a small bird sitting in the
dense tree – so close I could touch it - yawned. I spotted her with the help of the dawn
seeping between the leaves.  
And I was aware of time because I realized the brevity of the silence.

Yesterday I read a post in an email from Creative Non-Fiction. The topic of which was
"waiting" – and boy, was it timely for me! My foot surgery was four weeks ago and I'm
tired of waiting for this big boot to come off my foot. My foot is mending and it feels
pretty good. I don't need to wear the boot inside now, but it's velcroed to my stride
whenever I'm out and about. It's heavy. Yesterday the podiatrist said, "Two more weeks
and you can wear matching shoes again."

As I write this, the sun is now up and shining through the branches and I can see many
shades of green that I couldn't see an hour ago. This quick and brilliant palette happened
so fast I almost missed it. I'm reminded that waiting is something I manufacture from my
and time doesn't stop. I can deal with the boot - so much will happen between
now and then and each day is a day I only live once.

Twenty-one days ago I started an online retreat – I saw it in a blog (sorry, I don't
remember which one.) Anyway, it's Retreat For The Writer's Soul with Melanie Steele
and I emailed her. The retreat started immediately – and I began a pleasant journey of
time well spent. Thirty minutes a day, any time of the day - or night, has given me a
deeper sense of purpose, inspired me, and reminded me who I am. Go for it.

I can't thank her enough, but I'll try . . .

Thank you, Melanie, for every amazing moment. I grew in many
directions with your assistance!

More later . . .


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