This has been a solitary and introspective and perfect few days. It was cold, and I felt nature was playing a cruel joke on us. I wanted to build my little garden and drink iced tea in the sun.
Instead, I had a placid indoor sort of weekend. I took long runs and longer baths. I lingered in the stacks of my favorite bookstore, thumbing through the yellowed pages of mycology texts, and leaving with the perfect 1950s Canadian mushroom text and a slew of other things.
I made toast on the stove and at it in bed with the biggest mug of coffee. And I’ll read more, and run more, and cook more today.
Sometimes, nothing is better than being utterly alone.