Every day I wake before the kids. I put on coffee.
In New York City I write at the kitchen table with a view of a wide airshaft. Usually there are construction materials piled in a corner back there. On Tuesday and Saturday mornings, garbage pick-up days, I hear the porters wheeling bins of garbage. Sometimes I notice a light in the windows in the backside of another apartment building. I wonder if someone’s just had a baby, is going to the gym, has an early breakfast meeting, or is getting dressed. I wonder what they’re doing up so early.
But then I go back to my writing, submerge myself in my own world.
When I am up in the Adirondacks, I still wake before the family. I make some coffee. Or like the other morning, I woke up at Mountain Meadows, a sweet little Bed and Breakfast in Keene Valley. I had a lovely writing spot.
My mind wandered. I wondered about nature, not about people. I thought Wow, is that a hawk? Maybe it’s just a crow. Sunlight moves across the mountain in a parallelogram.
I don’t write. I just wonder. Sometimes beauty inhibits my creative flow, but feeds my soul.