I woke this morning to white sunlight across my white comforter and wondered for a brief moment if it had snowed in the night. Such are the things the mind does in that intersection between sleeping and waking. A place I wish I could choose to live in at will. Life would be much softer.
Yet consciousness breaks through and the day begins. There are the sick kittens to nurse and care for. Little Pippa has pneumonia and but for her little wet coughs, like a brush on sandpaper, you wouldn't guess. She paws softly around the room with her sweet expression and pigeon-like coos and trills and sets to purring even as you just begin to reach for her silken coat. She purred so steadily even at the vet's office that he had to give her a little scare to get her to stop long enough so he could listen to the rattle in her lungs.
Christabel is on the mend but spends her day sleeping on the bed, sighing occasionally before she goes to the door and cries for her sister who is quarantined across the hall.
And then there is the regular work to be done which I simply can't do when one or the other of these creatures is in the room being so new and achingly adorable in their wonderment of life, so I quarantine myself to the downstairs and solve problems for clients and take phone calls while I prepare a beef stew. I wonder if I could ever go back to office life, or if perhaps this blend and bleed of the domestic with the professional is just craziness. There is something to be said for clear lines between the two.
Finally, around midnight I browse through last week's entries; laughing, reflecting, nodding as I do every week. The challenge was "writing", and newcomer Columbibueno gave us this:
Knuckles moved down Michael’s spine.
“You uncomfortable?” Mr. Crisco wiped his glasses. “Anyway, as I was saying… We need to discuss this sudden cult hunter phenomenon.”
Jill rolled her eyes. “Dad!”
“What? Can’t we entertain intellectual subjects during dinner? Our visiting scholar might have valuable information.”
Michael watched the shadows that trawled the walls. “Yeah, I know about the Cult Hunters.”
Mr. Crisco perked up. “Then I can tell you. Some guys wearing ball gowns burst in and nailed small posters with crazy writing and symbols to our walls.”
The knuckles dug in harder. “Mr. Crisco, those aren’t ball gowns.”
Which was interesting, no?
During the recent October snowstorm and extended power outage, I was reading Essays of E.B. White by candlelight next to the fire (I know, I know) and it's still sitting next to my reading chair, so I picked it up to do the magic finger selection and I kid you not, the word my finger landed on was:
Have at it, the challenge is open until midnight Sunday.