I heat my coffee in the micro-wave, leftover from yesterday. At ten dollars a pound for the French roast beans which I favor, I cannot bear to toss the half-pot that remains from my solitary breakfast and so, on Monday mornings, I drink the rest. It still satisfies.
The outside air lures me. I sit in the rocker facing west, wrapped in a shawl. My hands fall idle, except for the occasional lift of the crystal mug. In a few minutes, I will throw myself into the crazy stretches that I call “yoga”. But not just yet. For now, I will linger, breathing the mild, soothing scent of last night’s rain.
It’s the twenty-third day of the twenty-ninth month of My Year Without complaining. Life continues.
“Morning” by Sara Teasdale
I WENT out on an April morning
All alone, for my heart was high,
I was a child of the shining meadow,
I was a sister of the sky.
There in the windy flood of morning
Longing lifted its weight from me,
Lost as a sob in the midst of cheering,
Swept as a sea-bird out to sea.