Red Room Where the Writers Are

The house feels huge, spacious at this hour of the morning. With everyone still in a slumber, there is an order to the place that somehow gets lost as the day progresses. Kind of like my mind really. It starts off with a clear definition of how I want the day to go, how much time I will devote to my writing, how I will plant this and cook this and paint that and walk the animals, but come half way through and the whole idea of what I had for my day disintegrates and my vision starts to fade, become vague and close to impossible.

I can be moody too.  Not often but sometimes. Men don't understand moods. They don't suffer moods. At least the men in this house.  My sons look at me strangely, what happened to Mom, why isn't she beaming and jumping around, and doing one of her crazy dances out of the blue. What's wrong with you, says hubby to me, in a concerned voice, you seem quiet, everything okay?  Why even the dogs seem aware of my mood, especially the beagle, as his already sad eyes appear close to filling up with tears any minute. Maybe it is the Summer that does it. There is no let up in the house. Breakfast is at any hour. Cereal bowls and swim shorts crowd the patio. People come and go. Schedules have gone out the window.

Winter is good for schedules and sons being out of the house all day long! I thought I would never say this but I have come to realise that I like Winter. The cosy up to the fire, the sense of peace when my thoughts come clear and pure like a frosty morning. When the space in my mind is full of words and ideas and  I go to the computer and turn it on, impatient for  the purr of possibility to fill the room.

But this is another day. Yet another beautiful day with a clear sky full of potential. I will try not to squander it. I will accept it tenderly and open myself up to all that it grants.  Today is all there is.