Wet fog. Gray day. Monday. Wanting
to write, but hiding out in thoughts of the Sonoma Mission Inn, and spa
treatments instead. Hot stone
massage, a crushed bamboo scrub with the scent of bergamo, orange quince steam,
blood orange olive body butter, pumpkin cream body wrap.
Which makes me then
yearn for those yummy pumpkin chocolate bars I’ve tracked down the recipe
for. And autumn pumpkin chili (a
good idea, which I see lots of others have had before me). And pumpkin pie spices—cinnamon,
ginger, allspice, cloves, mace, nutmeg.
And then . . . and
then. My two hours of writing time
are gone, with my need to gather rather than give, my need to selfishly hold
these imagined comforts up against my quaking heart, along with hand-stitched quilts and sleepy puppies. (The plunge into the cold season, the time without sun.)
I am not brave
today. I need to mull and be
mulled with the mulling spices.
image: Mulling Spices, Nina Nelson
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