The smell of impending rain drifted through the open window by my bed this morning, teasing me awake. After a few minutes reveling in it, I slipped out from under the feather comforter, donned yoga pants and a sweater, and wandered upstairs. Made coffee and took it and a notebook out to the deck.
I’m staying with friends in the real town of Snohomish, which I fictionalize into Cadyville in my Home Crafting Mysteries. Sixty degrees this morning, cloudy, and a cool breeze nudged the wind chimes into an irregular, infrequent pinging. The sound evoked the aura of a temple, a shrine, and made my morning ritual of coffee, notebook and pen something almost holy.
Below me, the extensive gardens stretched out, verdant and colorful. Hummingbirds zoomed in to sip at the fuchsias on the deck, wings a blur, feathers flashing iridescence. Water gurgled quietly in the pond below the grape arbor. The big willow wept. Lucy the cat crept in on fog feet, leaped up, curled and slept.
A purring cat on my lap was the final, perfect touch.
An hour later I’d written three pages, and my friend came out to join me. Later I showered and worked, then walked and worked, then late-lunched and worked. The rain came, soft and warm. With nothing tugging at my attention other than those things, it doesn’t feel like I’ve worked at all.
Tonight I’ll teach a workshop at the library, and then my event duties are over for now. Tomorrow I’ll meet with my writing group, the one I meet with every week, only in person this time. I haven’t seen them for a year, only talked and chatted on Skype. I’m so looking forward to seeing them, to an evening of face-to-face talk about writing, publishing, babies, jobs, politics and who-knows-what.
Then back home on Wednesday.