Do the Thing

Jet lag jumps on my bed in the morning, squeals at me to get up. The world outside the windows is pitch black still, quiet. I tip toe into the kitchen, make coffee in silence. Stand on the back porch to say good morning to the grainy hushed light that yawns and stretches over the mountains in the distance. The air is cool, it is autumn. Meditate, interrupted only by the thought I am free; it makes me smile, how can I possibly wish it away? Not 24 hours in, and the desk is already a creative mess of paper and pens, of post-its and coffee mugs, a pleasant hum settles in my gut and I open a window, as the first rays of sunlight streak across the field outside, setting the straw on fire. 

I reach my hand into the envelope of words, take a deep breath, pull out another scrap of paper:

If I do this every day for a year, 

where will I be 

a year from now?

Ok.