Quiet, is my favorite morning.

Fresh ground, French pressed, light roast Ruta Maya agave half and half swirling. My Christmas mug in August runs over with amazing coffee. You know that feeling.

Mostly it’s the quiet. The time to visit a familiar quiet blank “space”. Yet it’s the thick acid free, line free, sketch-book journal, and it’s mate, a good Precise, extra fine pen by Pilot, in lieu of a fountain pen, which fetch me at least my four, maybe five, smiles. Five if you count this hitherto unnamed, yet, possible, other place to smile from.

There is no sence going into the state of fountain pen magic in my life right now, to avoid the grief, of loss of nib- please, pretend it wasn’t mentioned. *Sigh*.

With or without the unmentioned, the best part of the morning is spacing out, wandering in wonder, exploring the creation, this evolution of cyberspace on internal internet.

What kind of space is this? That other possible one to smile from, perhaps. A telepathy place, to connect with my friends, inner circle, think tank, mentor, writer’s group, The Wind, then to quest for the holy anything. Then, to quest for its opposite.

The adventure flows or drips from an inner, innate, inkwell, through a blue inkwell in my hand via a fuzzy dial-up connection that drizzle patterns onto the journal, swirling like coffee, of the day’s living, the milk, and the honey.

A walk, a pretty shop, an artful display, some verse, an essay, a snippet of story, some stretching, a bit of yoga, memories, might delight today,  sprinkled with a mini Tarot reading for myself.

The cards are in my book back for…Oh, the gamble! The anticipation, the grounding of that little random picture-telling- the little coffee joy if it. The giggle, a furrow, a what? Hmmmh, and an I never would have thought! So, this is what that feeling was. The surrender to: Okay, I’ll  be practical, and do the polishing kind of rewarding hard work…And an oh, no wonder! All of which are sweetly anchoring for a spirit tripper.

So, Spirit descends like coffee, and through the pen, to be born of flesh this morning, and live.