The Simple Act of Breathing


This morning was made of speckles. Not literally, not the whole morning, I am exaggerating for effect. I was adding dots to a storybook illustration, peripherally aware of the fabulous day outside, the windows were all open and the air all fresh, much nicer than the usual wood ash and damp dog aromas that loiter in our living room. Breathing became noticeably pleasant. I was aware of enjoying the simple act of breathing and quietly applying ink. The morning passed, the picture was finished and scanned and sent. Donna tells me the lambs have come a week earlier than expected, and her sister has been helping, trundling her baby daughter through the pens in a wheelbarrow. 

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