Every morning, I sit at my table and write, freehand, a stream of consciousness spill. A morning page or so.
There’s a bit going on at the moment — the first anniversary of my stroke is approaching, and on Wednesday, I see my neurologist for a check-up. There are no deadlines. No work commitments. Just living mindfully, working through rehab activities every morning, going for a walk or to the shops, reading for a short while, crocheting, watching ABC and SBS online.
The morning writing anchors me, settles me into my body and into my day.
On Friday, a friend visited and brought short-stemmed deep red roses that sit perfectly in an earthenware jug given to me in 1970. All this beauty sits on the table in front of me as I write, and as the day wakes grey and mild outside my windows.
red velvet roses
crown Ethiopian vase