Order

Woken up just after five this morning by the rain. Came on slowly, I thought <here comes the wind>, and then it was hammering on the roof, walls, windows. Still-warm stove from last night, warm duvet, just awake enough to be in the moment. Then, after a few minutes, it stopped. Went outside: clear sky, all the way to the stars, above a drenched world. That was then. Three of the local bluetits now finishing the last of the nuts in the bird feeder. Rain very present in the air - that sense of light darkened by the imminence of rain: any darker, and this is the kind of darkness that turns into water.
    I shall write today, and in my pauses, I will begin to prepare for the weekend - driving a van-load of furniture to Bath on Saturday, back Sunday. Family reunion. So today there's a list of things to bring down from the attic, the main bedroom, et cetera. And an opportunity to get the remaining things straight. I think I inherit a sense of order - or more precisely, given that I live in a state closer to chaos, a fortunate ability to raise my own spirits via quick, incremental orderings of that chaos. If washing-up is a meditation, and if so, it's getting to be a big one here, I tend to meditate one saucepan at a time. Maybe today is a two-saucepan meditation, though. Three-pipe problem - three-pan problem.
    Thursday tomorrow. Must get a next batch of Katie up and scrubbed and into her best clothes for the Thursday Group. Talking the other day about doing Jemima Christmas for television; she predates the new Arthur Christmas film, I think, although I suppose that must have been in production for a while. <Every year, Jemima says "Can I come too, daddy?" This year, Father Christmas says "Yes!"> So far, the most favourable feedback has been from nine-year-olds. Good age to be.