There are days I don’t have a beginning - do not know where to start. When all the initial thoughts feel trite and I want something original and significant. But everything is significant in its own place - the sacks, folded, sitting there - from the far flung coffee regions of the world - are signifiant.

They tell me a story of love and labour - of a way of life for someone that ends up being my way of life.

They are made from simple cloth - yet they have given and given - holding precious green coffee beans - and now sitting in my car to hold road kill, sand from the river for seedling trays, and even a meat hanging case for our recently consumed hare. They are not insignificant.

And neither is this moment. To find the last page in this journal - it happens to be one my six year old drew all over as he waited for us to finish kung fu class - he waits so patiently for us - notices everything.

I love him.

Will pick him up from school. I love that he still jumps into my arms - something my other two no longer do.

And just like that I’ve come home - closer into myself because I picked up this battered journal and sat in the still pregnant day - the morning that has barely awoken - because I must, despite feeling oh so wreary, despite a not feeling inspired.

The birds sing, the fire roars and the pot of tea is beckoning me for a second cup. All the creatures of the world are up for life and they rouse me out of whatever funk I’m in now - and call to me - come play.