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It is day 3 of no coffee. A pause on a routine that has become fairly mechanical and impulsive. Giving my body time to slowly accelerate into the day, rather than catapulting into the ground. I lie though. This morning I've had a shallow cup of coffee, remnants of the coffee pot from Joseph's morning brew. Typing is a jittery feat. I don't miss the routine of coffee making. I'm finding new routines to replace it, or rather, freeform routines. With each day of this seemingly endless free fall of time, I seek out creativity to keep my hands and mind busy. Natasha made beets the other night.

And the beets gave me a beautiful pot of rich earthy blood to dye with.

My favorite studio shirt, a white muscle T now a light pink, is hanging on the pergola drying in the light cool breeze that accompanies Spring. And as I feel my mind starting to grow sluggish with the strain of thinking to hard about what to write about for sake of feeling productive, I glance over at an open book, a recipe silently provoking me to 'just do it.' So, I'm off to make a sourdough starter this morning. A name for this yeasty culture will come forth naturally, in time. It's Thursday, but I've long since stopped defining my days by a name, even less so by the feel of the weather. It's the persistent feeling that things are all good, will be good, and even, were good.


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