Write about the morning.
Write for fifteen minutes. When you’re finished, post your practice in the comments.
If you post, be sure to give some feedback to other Practitioners.
The cell phone vibrates me awake. I reach for it, hold the bright screen to my squinting face, and set it for thirty minutes later. I hate mornings.
I-don’t-know-how-many minutes later, I open my eyes to see the grey out my window. The field is murky with it, brown grass sticking up out of a swamp of fog. The trees are not trees but only pine. The oak and poplars have withered down to stalks, leaving the shaggy pine looking like remnants of a holocaust. The only ones clothed in a sea of naked and shaved. But in this fog, the trees never end, they float upwards, for all we know, limitless as bean stalks. My eyes shut.
The cell phone again. I turn it off. Talia makes a sound. I should get up. I should want to get up. My eyes close.
She slides up next to me. Her chin tucks into my shoulder. She gets up.
I actually like cloudy days. They are warmth, hot coffee. They are staring into grey, feeling soothed by it, letting it cover you like a blanket of introspection. Your whole world is what is right in front of you because everything else is consumed by fog. A veil over the world.
My eyes open again and I know they must stay open. I have slept far too long. I don’t want to get up. Oh, I don’t want to. I get up.
I look at the time, an hour of my day lost. A flock of crows fly black over the trees.
Talia smiles, says, “How did you sleep?”