Routine Rules.

Rough winds blew me away from home last week on account of a family emergency. Everything is fine now, thanks for asking, due in no small part to the organisational skills and general brilliance of  Fife Council's finest. There was a home visit within hours of broken bones being reported and a plan of care in place the very same evening. Much relief all round.

Bread on the way to the oven.

It was only a few days and nights but it reminded me how much of a homebody I am.  I love the familiarity of things.  I love the freedom to spend a day in my pajamas waiting for a loaf of bread to rise and the daily conversation with my lad as we lean on the kitchen counter and watch the latest activity at the bird feeders, observing the starling numbers ( thirty five yesterday ) and laughing at the goldfinches as they hang upside down and squabble over seeds.  I love it that we live in a house full of books and yarn and pictures.

Toy dog collapses under the weight of all that knowledge.

 Even Magnus, the most unpredictable member of the household has a reassuring routine. Each morning he wakes us up with the sound of his substantial furry body flinging itself at the glass door which is all that separates a cat from his breakfast.  Half past four every afternoon he tries to persuade us that it really is five o' clock and that teatime must be imminent. Every afternoon I have a pointless conversation with him explaining in words I know he can't understand, that it is only four - thirty and that teatime is still many minutes away.

 

Some spun fibre.

As far as I'm concerned, familiarity breeds calm, not contempt. My wee quiet house with the birdwatching window, the lad in the study and an attic full of fibre is what builds me up, keeps me well and sends me off on new adventures knowing it will all be there waiting for me when I come home.

Unspun and waiting to be transformed.