When the day truly begins, with morning prayer and the early meal, we fall into a pattern for our hours - ora et labora - clean, tea, wood, tea, play, lunch, read, tea… the itinerary changes. This week I clean, split-wood, write, read all about Wilma’s fat cat and pet rat as they argue over a mat, tend the stove, and sew. The consistency is in the breaking, in the moments of tea and quiet, or tea and chatter, in the time spent at our little table - or on chairs before the roaring fire - refreshing our tiny community.
Evening tea is reflective. After supper-time, after evening prayers there is often, but not always, a later cup. For it I leave my willow-ware resting on shelves and hold one of my own again. The softness of my own small creation sleeping gently against my hand is soothing to the ever-shifting palm-lines; I can feel each moment of it’s creation - as though there ought to be a mark for this, and every other pot I’ve birthed, and perhaps there are, so tiny they stay hidden. Secret remembrances to each and every earthen-child. My daughter sleeps while I sip memories - “Before I formed you..” The coyotes howl together in the distance, and I think of all the ways to know the not-yet-born.