Charlie was outside early, let out by my husband, barking to wake the world and claim his territory. So, we walked early. In the brook, I hunted for ice art, found very little that was interesting. We crossed the trestle bridge into the open meadow and visited the aspen, felled by the beaver, and the milkweed, weathered and fluffed. After a coaching client, a delightful session, I wrote all day in the quiet house by the fire. I send out my monthly newsletter tomorrow to subscribers, and so I spent the day writing from an old photo and writing my newsletter article about it. I’m enjoying this non-chaotic, un-rushed, deep dive post-holiday quiet time. This morning I stopped, crossing the trestle bridge, and looked down at the river, into the small, steady, unruffled reflection of the sliver white moon on the water, blue as the bright sky above and I gave thanks.
