It’s raining. There are few things on earth more relaxing, more peaceful, than waking up on a cool and rainy late summer day. It’s dark, even the sun has taken the day off. The heavy clouds are holding it at bay, but it doesn’t fight too hard. It’s tired after shining so intently all summer long, boiling us under its unrelenting glare. It needs a break.
You sleep on your own terms, waking only when your body decides it has had enough. No alarms and no surprises. Even after your brain knows it’s awake, you lie there anyway, eyes closed, body completely relaxed, molded into the soft mattress, cool pillow under your head, listening to the gentle shhhh of rain on leaves.
You get up, clean up the kitchen, wash and put away the dishes–itself somehow a relaxing and satisfying chore. Search for the coffee, find it hidden away in a tin in the cabinet and wonder how it got there. Hot coffee with real cream, enough half and half to make it turn a light cappuccino brown, two scoops of brown sugar. Pour a bowl of granola. Feed the cat, listen to her grateful purr as you pour the food into the bowl. Beef and gravy this morning, a hearty satisfying meal. Feed the dog, same formula–meat-like chunks from a can in a heavy broth of brownish gravy. His tail wags, he looks happy to see you. You pat him on the head as he eagerly attacks his breakfast with lusty gulps, swallowing without chewing. Primal instincts telling him to gorge while the gorging is good. It’s feast or famine for a pack hunter.
It is a good day to write. Laptop on lap, sitting in your favorite chair, sipping your sweet milky coffee. You turn on the radio but the noise seems wrong, like a disturbance of the peace. The deejay is an unwelcome stranger. A space invader. A chatty disruptor of solitude. You prefer the rain, the quiet hum of the refrigerator, the clockwork-like tick of the overhead fan as the blades spin round and round. The crickets singing in the trees out back, convinced by the rainy gloom that evening has come at 9 am.
You feel rested, at peace. You have no agenda, no worries, no schedule. You slept well, your battery is fully charged. You have worries, but they’ve been shoved aside somewhere. Locked away in a storage trunk, but sure to emerge later. For today though, for now, you are at one with your universe. It is a day meant for writing, a writer’s day. And you hope that your muse sticks around long enough to get a few hundred words on paper.
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