geekyfrog

I love the mornings.  Everyone else in the house is still sleeping, and I've been up (not as early as usual) and I've gotten lots of chores done... cats fed, flowers watered and deadheaded, the baked beans for today's picnic in the crockpot.  And now, it's MY time.

I'm on my deck.  No music playing, but the nature sounds are loud - birds of all varieties creating a cacophony, a gentle breeze stirring the tops of the trees.  Way, way up overhead, there's the drone of a jet as a backdrop.  And that's it.  It is so peaceful out here.  Today will be hot, certainly, but so far it isn't humid and the heat is just a distant promise.  I've got my laptop and a cup of coffee and I'm just about to embark on part of a chapter that wants to be written this morning.  But first, I had to pause and ruminate about something.

Why is it that I am so often happiest when I am alone?  Am I too much of a perfectionist?  Do the characters and narratives and dialogues in my head outshine reality?  Or - am I just someone with a need for solitude, who has precious little of it in her life?  I'm not antisocial.  I'll have a great time at the picnic today.  But I crave the time by myself so much that at times I wonder if it is pathological.

Just a thought to add to the mix of many turning over in my brain.  I need to go write.