Peace, and Then It's Gone

Last night my family left. And I washed dishes.

It had been weeks, months, since I'd handwashed a dish, save an errant pot. It had been hours, days, since I'd had any time to myself. So I shooed them to the pool and eyed the sinkful of cups and plates and odd things, the ones that hadn't fit in the dishwasher's last load.

Silence--finally--fell over the house.

At the sink, I lost myself in the blue of the Dawn, the slip of the bubbles. I focused on the pull of my hamstrings as they stretched to lock my knees, felt the cold metal hardware as I leaned my forehead into the cabinet. My fingers swam the warm water, not quite as hot as I like it to be.

I'd forgotten how peaceful and relaxing washing dishes could be. I was reminded how important--no, dire--quiet is for this thinker, writer, woman.

I hummed a song. I plotted dinner. I heard my thoughts.

I summoned the main character from my WIP, whom I hadn't seen in at least a week. She stood next to me at the sink; we chatted just a bit. But before I could beg her to stay the evening, my family returned and she made a graceful exit.

The dishes were done.

The peace, gone until next time.

Join Me

I sit, favorite coffee beside me, pondering the day ahead. Time to myself is stretched before me, and I anticipate the moments I'll steal, the stuff I'll do just for Janna.

Birds chatter in play, lifting my spirit in preparation, and a breeze blows the newly-dressed tree outside my window, giving me glimpse at the freedom I'll own.

But I won't scatter just yet, because I like this still and calm, this expectation. Will you join me? Feel it for yourself?

My desk calendar tells me today is Beverage Day. What beverage will you have, just because? What thoughts would you share if you could pull your chair to mine?