Rain on the window forms linenfold panels and weaves patterns on the patio umbrella outside on the deck. The garden and old trees beyond are barely visible. The sound of water hitting the roof tiles overhead and running through the eaves and downspout into the rain barrel is pleasing. We are far from from the Bay of Bengal and such seasonal weather phenomena, but somehow or other, monsoons seem to have made their way to the north, and it is cooler here this morning than it has been in weeks. I am wearing long sleeves and a shawl.
On this side of the windows and resting easy on the battered oak table in the dining room is a stack of journals and sketch books, a handful of pens and a mug holding a fragrant tarn of Darjeeling. The art glass chandelier suspended over the table turns everything on it into tiles and tesserae, and I am off and thinking of mosaics.
This is a good day for reorganizing art and stationery cupboards and reordering the multitudinous folders on this computer, for drinking tea, reading, sketching and rocking gently along in time with the Scarlatti sonatas (Pletnev's recording), Hildegarde of Bingen, the Mediaeval Baebes and the Kingsfold Suite.
Tucked somewhere in the midst of such lovely pursuits are bowls of fresh strawberries and peaches, a batch of molasses cookies, scones and at least one loaf of gluten free bread.
A day like this once in a while, is no' a bad thing.