Sundays are my favorite day of the weekend. Saturdays I’m still resting up from the workweek (more rest than intended yesterday since I took an Actifed and ended up on the couch with a 5 hour nap) but Sunday mornings I’m usually well-rested and ready to write. It’s why I hoard my weekends so much, never really wanting to make plans to leave the house. I’m usually up a few hours before my so I can make a pot of chai to sip while I wake up, read, and listen the birds outside my window. They are chattering at me to come toss some seeds and fill the birdbath. The squirrels are doing roadraces up and down the olive tree so fast that Chelsie is getting dizzy trying to follow them. I look up from my computer and see the leaves just barely moving in what I know is a warm breeze. Our hummingbird dances in front of the window for a time then he’s off to feed on the geraniums. I wonder if this is what it would be like if I were home every day or if it just because I have this so seldom that it feels so magical to me?
Time to get to work and see if I can get over the hump in BOR this morning.