Morning time is sacred to me. It’s when I write, it’s when I clean the house, it’ when the day is set in motion.

As soon as I coax myself from layers of linen and snuggling terrriers and man I am ready for the day.

I have an unscripted life and each day possesses potential for adventure, achievement, and the whims of life as they come my way.

I don’t exactly have a morning routine, or anything that I do “daily”, however, the day typically starts with cleaning up the gift before.

Gathering recycling, sweeping quietly while the rest of the beasts slumber on, feeding sourdoughs, or in the case of this morning, putting away dried seeds from the summer.

As I work my mind wanders. I think of my sisters and mother that I won’t see this Christmas because of covid (which is starting to seem more like the annual flu, a very serious flu). I think about how this particular morning I feel extra released from societal bounds.

I have no ties to go anywhere at least up until New Years now. Most of our friends are either sadly sick, or will be out of town, leaving the better of this week completely open for me to dream.

This first morning of my holiday I begin with dried seeds, paper bags, and a mimosa.

I drift to the threads of life that have brought me to this place.

I first laugh warmly in my deep heart to my dear friend Elizabeth, who rarely drinks, but when she does likes a brandy-fortified mimosa. To her I tip my festive morning tonic of choice.

The I move to my sisters and mother, who may be amused, slightly concerned and down to partake themselves. How they find joy in me, who seems to find the fun and carefree in life.

Then my mind switches to some of my oldest friends from high school. Laura and her mother, Cindy.

Both strong, more frightening really, kind of women. Apart from hiding and jumping out of closets when I would come over, their voice commands and I and too wise to defy.

From them I gather my strength to do whatever the fuck I want. Hence my morning of organizing and bagging and labeling seeds.

My mom and Cindy are both wonderous gardeners and because of both of these beautiful women I care about outside. They are a main reason why I grew, and collected seed.

Ah yes, I have begun my holiday with all my sisters in mind and the power of a mimosa in my hand, and the smell of summer’s anise hyssop in my nose.

More play with Issac!

In this series we explore the tired hosewife breaking from her jade pearls! Crazed with what she had become and how she has been so weak and subservient. She will no longer be!