Like a swipe of fairy dust, a few delicate patches of frost have formed overnight on the back deck and is the only visual reminder of winter's presence. No piles of snow as the golden sun blasts at the front windows, tunneling into the house, forcing bits of dust to dance.
The rest of the house sleeps, men and the dog quietly and deeply inhale, perhaps exhaling causes a faint and low rumble (mostly from the dog) and I am left to review my dreams.
It is the long, movie-like dreams with many seemingly unconnected acts that cause me the most concern. I try to look back on as much detail as I can remember and see where the pieces fit and I always wonder why some people or names are included in some and others are very much just about me and my own journey. Last night, fragments of high school people, trespassers at my childhood home, unwrapped presents for my deceased father, boxes of personal belongings, one son with a full sleeve tattoo which included a blackened middle finger with a claw, being left behind, walking in pain and becoming turned around in a maze like building for quite awhile before finding my way out all blended together and I try to pick it all apart like a giant knotted ball of yarn. Maybe the message is just on the surface. Maybe the meanings are obvious. Maybe I should try to harness the creativity into putting words together and telling stories. Maybe it is all meaningless and simply snapshots stuck in my subconscious that force their way out in my sleep. And so, I am at the keyboard.
My routine of writing has built in procrastination as I boot up the computer, I know I will first check Facebook and the Yahoo headlines. I often find what I want to see - good news or bad will be noticed first though both certainly exist. Today, I feel motivated by the passion of others. Athletes will practice, foodies will cook, crafters will craft, without a desire to "turn it off." It is a part of them. Far too often I put aside what I want to do in exchange for the tasks I feel I have to complete. Marathon runners do not skip training to ensure the laundry is done. Competition cooks are not likely found cleaning the bathroom on the day of a contest.
And so within a few short minutes (ok, half an hour) the house begins to wake up. Conversation, the telling of my crazy dream, breakfast cereal and the clicking of dog nails on the floor, my concentration has been broken. Or has it? I look out the window at the swipes of frost, still in the shade and know today has begun with a series of fabulous moments and I will look forward to more.
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