I opted to stay inside, sleepy from the rain and the hearty breakfast, to indulge in a meditative (and overdue) writing exercise by the fire. I feel more accomplished these last two days of writing than I have all year. There's nothing quite like getting back to the heart of you.
The fire is lovely, soothing, its glow warm on my skin. Mr. Whittaker stopped in for his afternoon Bourbon, and sat with me awhile reminiscing about his life: "I lived down the street, raised here in town. My daughter lives here now; my wife and I moved out to the ol'house just outside of town. She's been gone 14 years now, cancer at age 58. We would have been married 50 years this year." He recalled some of the lyrics of an old country song by Rick Trevino, Doctor Time and then fell silent for a moment. With a sip and a shake he went on, talking about his upcoming trip to Thomasville beach where he has a house and a recent trip to Biloxi where he held the dice for 30-40 minutes playing craps, rolling ten tens. He leaves a few minutes later wishing me a good night.
The whistle of a passing train sounds, complementary to the ambient crackling fire, wind and rain. It is hypnotic, and I find myself rooted to the sofa watching, listening engaged in a mindful yoga meditation of my own doing.