Pup is adapting. She sits on the couch looking out through the filmy lace curtains, signaling to me that she is ready to observe. I pull the curtains aside and she is working. We live on a busy avenue, so there is at least fairly constant motion and the occasional dog-sighting. She is four. This is a new habit. After traveling most of last year, she may have grown accustomed to an ever-changing scene from her seat on the console in the car. She is a good dog and smart. She knows that I am under the command of "Sit." and am working. Not playing. So she works.
Across from her I sit in the big red leather chair, my office. As I read about writer's and their habits and their writing rooms, I find mine. I write most mornings now, eager to begin with breakfast behind me. I am writing a memoir of last year's travels and of the years of grief that preceded the trip.
I wake slowly. Do you? I love lying in bed and pondering the night-formed thoughts, the coming day and the rather unassuming question of what to wear. The high windows of my bedroom reveal the hour by the light and then the flight of the birds. The first thought on the day is that the only time that is really important is whether it is dawn or not. With the sun up, I lie and watch the crossings of the birds. Geese angle to the south heading to the fields, crows leave their roost laughing raucously and then, as the little birds come to the feeder, a hawk might circle or sit on the top of my
tallest tree. Time to get up. The clouds, the motion of the willow branches, or lack thereof, help me decide what to wear. My morning begins.
I try not get distracted before sitting to write, but the perfect angle of light making my bathroom seem like an outhouse in the reflection of a glass-framed print of mountains is the kind of thing that will sidetrack me to the camera.
Tut, my big tomcat and Chives the little cat are fed and then often beg to come back in, perhaps to type a few brackets or apostrophes on the keyboard or see if they can yowl for just a little more of that canned cat food. And yet, eventually the animals respect my sitting and I can write.