The house is clean. (Virtually all of my fantasies start this way.)
All my peeps are snug wherever they need to be.
I have a stack of books, my computer, my crocheting, a never-ending pot of tea, my shawl, a blanket, and my dog (and the remote control).
The fire is lit. Through the big window I can see the snow falling and accumulating on the porch, the grass, the bird feeder.
I sit, surrounded by all my favorite things, and watch the snow fall. Maybe I turn on an old movie, like the time my husband and I watched Dr. Zhivago and afterwards looked outside to see that our world had become a snowy landscape. Or maybe I sip tea and play with yarn and hooks, creating beautiful patterns in bright colors to light the dim afternoon. Or I pick up the first book from the teetering stack next to me and begin to read, knowing there will be no interruptions.
What I do is less important that the time to breathe and think in peace. The options are nice, but so is just sitting by the fire with tea and my dog, Yaya, knowing there is nothing more important to do.
linking up with Writer's Workshop