Sweatshirt Mornings

I’ve noticed a particular ease that comes when I reach for my sweatshirt each morning. There’s nothing special about it. It’s an old favorite, discovered after I retraced my steps past a gift shop window in Bar Harbor one cool summer evening. When I touched it, I knew.

On cold gray light mornings, it’s always waiting on the floor next to the bed. I carry it with me as I pad to the foot of the stairs, waiting to pull it on. There, I pause to gaze out the glass doors at the world outside. Then, I pull it over my head. Sliding my arms into the soft sleeves is a gentle signal.

I go through my quiet ritual of making coffee. Pour over, of course. I carry the mug into the soft light of the living room, click on the lamp, and tuck under the blanket. In the warm glow of the lamp, I read my daybook, pull an oracle card, write in my journal.

Softness at the start of everything.