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Matt Potter 3:30 p.m., Sept. 28
After a long loud feline stretch, I rolled over to see that it was almost nine. Shocked that I had slept so soundly well past sunrise, I pushed back the chenille covers and shuffled my bedheaded self across the tiled house into the kitchen. Not my kitchen, mind you. Don't have one as I've been floating around for two years housesitting, traveling, following my heart's content. But, the kitchen at my current housesit where I proceeded to brew some tea.
Sipping from a steaming cup beneath the portella looking out over the valley towards the Pacific, I breathed in the scents of the now waning morning. Hummingbirds zoomed past me and butterfly shadows flitted across the leg of my white linen pants. It was Sunday and I hadn't a thing to do.
So, I took a walk with the dog, lazed around in the sun warmed palm shaded pool,snapped some photos of bugs in the garden, took another swim and then another walk. I read some, wrote some, and hummed to music while swinging in the cliff side hammock with my bronzed hands gripped around a sweating glass of iced Vanilla Chai.
I perched high on a wall eating a spinach and tomato salad with mint chutney and cottage cheese drenched in a thick garlicky balsamic dressing watching the sun go down on Catalina Island. The soft colors of evening rolled in off the ocean, filling the valleys and the ribbons of hills fell into shadows. Sipping Coppola Moscato, the half moon appeared over my shoulder. I could hear the slow wing flaps of the hawk that's trying to eat the koi then its screech as it soared in wide circles down into the valley below me.
I didn't want to go in but goosebumps were climbing up my back and down my arms. Damn hard to tear myself away from a sweet, soft Sunday like this one had been. Then again, my weeks now are filled with them. Blessed be, may they always be.