An unhurried Sunday morning. An hour to myself, listening to Someone’s Daughter, knitting. Crows. And cardinals, jays, wood thrushes, wrens. Squirrels. Cicadas. Or death beetles as I call them because they are happiest when it’s hot enough to kill you. The twitching cat tail in response to it all. The rhythmic click of my needles. The barest rustle of green leaves and the silent drop of early fallers. So present. Putting nothing on my to do list. Not for 60 minutes. This is deep self care for me.
