The Architecture of My Creative Life

I lean down and scratch Margo behind the ears. She squints her eyes and begins to purr. A moment ago, I was still in bed. Now I’m making my way downstairs, moving through the small rituals that begin the day: grinding the beans, filling the kettle, opening the shades to let the morning in. The windows are a little hazy and could probably use cleaning, but I’ve grown to like the way the light comes through, softened and quiet.