Each morning I sit here, recording the route from a cold stiff achy waking to the warmth of a Divine memory.  To remember why I am here, to touch the spirit inside my heart, to open up the reluctant body and cranky mind to the flame of here and now, the brilliance of the moment.

How is it brilliant?  I am well, I move, I drink, I am sufficient in this little home, my cubbyhole in the catacomb dwelling.  The air, though chilly, will be clean and sweet when I go out to my sleek and lovely sports car–white like the angel she is–to dash into the roar of the traffic rush.

There is a celebration throughout the city today, our home boys went to the field and came back decisively victorious.  There will be many happy cheering fellows along my path today.

So today I am warmed by angels in the form of hawks.  I lean into the inner steady flame that burns my heart true.