I can't think of anything better to do this morning than the fluffy bird. The fluffy bird is the name we've given to the pose assumed by the person sitting in the comfy chair, facing the window, with their feet on the baseboard heater. Outside, the weather is windy and rainy, but I'm warm and dry and happy to be inside looking out.
Doing the fluffy bird hasn't made the rest of my world line up perfectly. There is still work to do and people to care for, and things that should be easy but won't be. Dust is accumulating as I write, and the onion seeds I wanted to start this week haven't arrived yet.
As difficult as it is to achieve order inside the house, outside it's worse. The news is full of crime, disaster and crisis and the powers that be seem to be pushing the levers in the wrong direction. I'm starting to understand why so many people are so incurious. When you start turning over rocks you just about always find something you don't really want to touch.
But fluffy birds don't worry about the future or housework or what's for supper. And neither will I - for now.