Some of my favorite moments are silent moments alone in my darkened house just before sunrise.
I’ve written about it several times before so it feels a bit redundant, but there’s something comforting about the way the lack of sound and light feels like a blanket, a cocoon.
In those moments I tend to feel a swelling of gratitude for our abode. A small protective castle just for us where we’re sheltered from wind and cold and heat and rain and bugs and bluster. I look around with a Christmas morning contentedness, feeling in love with the cozy clutter and soft blankets. At complete and welcomed odds with the small frustrations I feel noticing all the small imperfections in the critical light of daytime.
Yeah I’ve written about this before.
The sun rises over the lake in pinks and oranges, and the fog over the water seems to be running away like a vampire. Means I have to put down my book and fold up my blanket and make another cup of coffee and wake my family for church and get in the shower.
Until later then.
Also written on this day...
- say "houses of the holy" - 2021
- the daily betrayal - 2011
- haunts - 2009
- escapism - 2005
- spam cometh now - 2004