Divining over their maps and charts yesterday, the climatic prestidigitators predicted a storm. Hope invited me to entertain a day of freedom; pragmatism called me to business as usual.
So it was that I arose at the quotidian 4:45 this morning...bleary eyed, but already in composition mode, or so I discovered when clear enough to realize what was running through my mind. I was writing a letter about my hopes and goals for this Fall, the prayers of the faithful for Mass on Wednesday, and a letter to a friend. Perhaps a shower would help wash and smooth these slumberous sentences into some sort of order that an awake mind would find linear enough to grapple with and perfect.
Freshly steamed and scrubbed, I returned to my bedroom. Then the phone rang.
Indeed, the masters of meteorology got it right.
My pyjamas were still laid out on my bed, themselves one sleep clean and wrinkly soft. Within in moments, they were again hugging my now warmly soap smelling body, the coffee was brewing and I was in my regular chair with a mug of dark roasted goodness and glory, indulging in the gift of time and snow hush quiet before the rest of the house awoke.
I saved the nap for later.