Outside it's quiet and grey, my blinds still drawn, a cat at my feet, and I'm nestled under three layers: cotton, flannel, and a quilt. There are four pillows on my bed and my head rests somewhere between them.
I roll over once, maybe twice, and I peer at my fish across the room swirling gently 'round his bowl. I sit up. I reach across the bed to the window beside me, and I let the light in.
That's my most favourite part of the morning: letting the light in. There's something about morning light, something I don't have a word for.
I think for a moment; occasionally I will open my journal and write a few words, otherwise, I stand up and make my way down the old wooden staircase that creaks loudly. Another opportunity for morning light: the curtains above the kitchen sink are closed. I open them, and the trees in the backyard are awake, the birds are alive, and there are rabbits.
The icy breeze outside prompts me to turn the kettle on. A mug, a teabag, and a seat at the table while I plan my day ahead.