On the weekend there is this work to do: the gathering of all that spilled into my morning bowls. Picking them up and brushing them off and putting them in places where they might belong. A settling and reckoning.
When that is done then there is a moment, a pause for looking back over the span that is a week and telling the texture of it, capturing what detail wants telling.
And then there is a looking forward to the week to come, given the expectations the calendar holds, telling the texture of what is to come, making a doorway into it for myself. My own kind of doorway. Then stepping through it.