8am is ungodly late in the desert. The sun has been up for hours and I have ignored it streaming through the slats covering my window. I pray that it not 6:30am, and refuse to get out of bed. I lay here, snuggled in comfort, feeling the warmth of my dog along my leg. The pain I feel in my knee seems absent for a moment. I am snuggled in soft sheets, fluffy pillows, cozy comforters and soft blankets on top of me. I can not say it is silent, because I hear a chorus of birds outside. But they are not the sounds of humanity. Back in the city, my upstairs neighbors clomp their clomp, the baby next door cries and the leaf blowers blow.
I lay in bed, half meditating, revisiting a favorite emotion. Sensuous, longing, melancholy. I'm certainly addicted to it. It's safe, here in my visions. To be faced with it in the world is what I deeply desire and must be also terrified by. Maybe I have not the courage to manifest it really. Certainly, I do not lack the power.
I finally pull myself out of bed. Make the coffee and take my place on my front slab. What is there to do? Sit, breathe, watch, drink coffee. Mr Dog sits and watches too. Being here, in the silence. The desert air - so clean, cool, a touch of the coming heat of the day, the lingering scent of the creosote. I can not breath it in enough.
We suit up for our morning walk. This means I exchange my leather moccasins for tennis shoes and D puts on his harness. I love the sound of my shoes crunching on the rocky sand. The sun is rising, gaining height and heat. It feels good to move my body. To stop and smell the wind. I feel my blood quickening, my heart beating.
Upon returning, it's a full chorus birds singing. I sit for a while. Water some plants. Do a bit of manual labor, enjoying the quietude of my mind. It's good to be in the Mojave. I have missed it so.