The floorboards are soft under my feet as I pad lightly across the room. The air is still cool despite being on the cusp of summer. Sometimes my heart yearns impatiently for sultry mornings and the lingering evening heat. To feel the air kiss my skin hello. Freedom.
And then I write, pen to paper. It feels like the words speak directly from my heart to my fingers, and so the letters glide. It's a form of art, ink to paper, drawing shapes in a language that can be understood. I feel I've practised this art form for lifetimes. I'm drawn to this art to share with lovers in the form of notes and written gratitude. It's my language, what I understand best, what I can converse with ease.
The words move slow in the morning, in their own time, like the cycles of the moon. Like the cycle of the day, from dawn to dusk. The beauty of imagery breaks my heart. Better to be broken in the morning so the ascent of the day can continue to let the light shine through the cracks. Brighter and brighter until my heart is once again a glowing star of love. With an abundance to give and space to receive.
Small noises stir the house. A creaking floorboard, a tap running, clanging cutlery. It's almost as if this romantic dream is over, until tomorrow morning beckons with dazzling beauty. Now the day must be attended to, how it begins to unravel, a day unlike any other. How it will be mirrored to my eyes is up to me. Will I see open, loving arms of opportunity, chances for magic of human connection, time in abundance? If this is what the depths of my soul craves.
To remain unburdened, light in step, bright in presence.
Loretta
xo
xo
