I took a book to the café and read almost none of it. There was sunlight on the table, a conversation drifting over from somewhere nearby, and the very welcome feeling of having left the morning open.
I don’t always find it easy to do something without a purpose. There is usually a list to finish, a reason to go somewhere, something to show for the time. But a small part of the week can belong to no one in particular.
A morning left open
This one belonged to coffee, a page or two, and a few thoughts written down before they disappeared. I noticed the flowers on the table. I watched someone arrive with an enormous dog. Eventually, I ordered another coffee.
Not every hour needs to become something.
It was a good morning. I’m trying to remember that a good morning can be reason enough.
