A mug of tea is cradled in both hands. Windows open wide; tea steam unfurls into morning air. The scent of dew on rock and leaf drifts in. Thunderstorms may arrive—but mountains have their own temperaments and timing.
An owl now resides in a nearby tree. He hoots softly—just before dawn—while I sip tea.
Dawn crests the mountain as small golden leaves float lazily from tall trees.
Attention turns to where books riotously scatter—on tables and desks and floors—waiting to be read.
And they will be. But not today.
Scribbled notes on scraps of paper for poems and stories sit on my desk. A completed manuscript, after two months’ slumber in a drawer, waits for fresh eyes.
Small wonders: tea and a new companion who whispers before dawn; books to read and books still to write; a manuscript brought to completion. I cannot ask for more.
The world owes me nothing.
Yes, this is a good day to turn eighty-three.
—l.a.m.
May the year ahead be overflowing with infinite moments of joy and connection and love.