Sunday, again.

There was a moment this morning, late this morning, when I considered not getting up at all. Never mind that it is all sunny and bright outside. It is actually so not warm it is amazing. If it gets over 60 degrees these days, everyone breaks out the shorts and sandals. I was all cocooned in sweats under quilts and the thermal blanket, toasty and basking in the vestige of what must have been a sweet dream. Then I opened my eyes. Bad idea. Both dogs were sitting by my side, hanging over me with that Snoopy intensity, waiting. I flattered myself to believe it wasn't because they were hungry, and indeed, once I stumbled out into the rudeness of 49 degrees, I saw that there was actually some food leftover from yesterday in one of their bowls. Dear creatures, my fur people. So, to reward myself, I made French toast out of my new TJ whole grain sourdough and Greek yogurt, topped with sugarless syrup (not bad at all), and ran a lavender bubble bath. I am now dressed, and that was a major accomplishment. A friend called, and I got to realize this is a difficult time, as a dear friend is passing. That happened several times last year, but every time it was a surprise. There was no time to honor that spirit until it had left the planet. And now, I honor not only my dear one who is fading, but an even dearer spirit who is standing by her side through this sacred time. I hope to be able to visit sometime this week, if she is strong enough, and read to her from Ann LaMott's Traveling Mercies. So much in there to chuckle at, to identify with, to soothe.

On another note, I distracted myself and went to a concert last night. I know that when some folks say "concert", they mean Dave Matthews Band or Lady Gaga. I mean the American Philharmonic Orchestra of Sonoma County, an all volunteer symphony orchestra that gives free concerts. I donated the suggested $20 and felt treated. They played an all American program, beginning with Bernstein's Overture to Candide, Barber's Adagio for Strings, and Copland's Appalachian Spring. Very stirring. After lolling about the lobby during intermission, doing some of Ann LaMott's Butt Mind (comparing my rear end to all the others in the room), we heard Moby Dick, by Bernard Herrman, a little played work for chorus, soloists and orchestra. Of course, the chorus was all male. No chicks aboard the Pequod. Ahab, the baritone, was spectacular. It was a noisy, self-involved piece that was resoundingly well-received. I got to be somewhere else for a couple of happy hours. Thinking I will do some of that today, too. Walk in the neighborhood. Do a pastel of these tulips. Something. Anything.