Ten.Two Thousand, Three Hundred & Seventy-Three
Monday.
Decaf in my new little ceramic tumbler that I bought from the odd little gallery and shop on the wharf. Reminds me of my dream of living on the coast making pottery. And based on all of the ceramics I saw, that is not an uncommon dream.
I rinse the grapes and pull them off the stem, one by one. I know what it is: I like being home. I like making breakfast. I like getting my laundry done. I like looking through the window at the trees. I like having my own bathroom.
Par for the course.
These tight quads will be the death of me.
Eight-word mantra.
You can let it be easy.
Is that really 70 degrees I see in the forecast?
He asks me how practice was. “Fun,” I say. Fun for me, not sure how much fun it was for them. “But they felt present.” Being present is good.
Those glances.
