It was another Tuesday morning: I meditated. I took a shower. I worked on my manuscript. I sent some emails. I sat in a sunny spot on my couch and ate a bowl of leftover angel hair pasta. I left a bunch of ridiculous tweets on twitter. (For those of you don’t know, twitter is yet another procrastination, I mean, “social networking” site on the internet.) Artist Friend sent me a short story he had just written, and I made him stop what he was doing -- even though he was at work -- so that we could talk about it. I do love analyzing a great piece of writing, especially if I am talking to the author.
But the sun was shining, and it seemed wrong to be inside on the computer.
My parents came by to give me some mail that had come to their house despite the fact that I haven’t lived there in 25 years; my mother convinced me that I ought to go with them for a walk at Pretty Colour Lakes. The wind was cool enough for a winter coat. After all, we had snow yesterday.
It’s too early for foliage, but the lawns near the park entrance were green. A few other people were at the lake already, sitting on benches near the beach to absorb the sun. We walked the mulch-covered trails around the lake, talking as we went. Whenever we came out from under the cedar trees, I could feel the sun on my head and face, warming me. The ice had melted from the lake, and when the wind died down, the still water on the far side of the lake shone blue-green.