I realize that I write about early mornings repetitively, but, I am so excited about the dawning of a new day, I have no restraint. What possibilities lay ahead and how can I make this day count in truly meaningful ways? This morning is black; still, I can make out a fine icy dusting of snow on the pines. I step out onto the deck, I have now wandered into the powerful embrace of a bitter wind that is battering the heavy wind chimes; I shiver and listen in awe. I am suddenly transported; I am in a temple, a holy place. I brace myself to stand within the wintry gust in my cotton gown and bare feet, I am blessed. Inside the house, the air is herbal, and thirteen candles are glowing, on my altar, and on the mantle, oh, no…..this number is not on purpose, that is just the count this morning, the room where I type now is golden. I move to the kitchen, there are several old dogs snoring in the fleecy circles of various doggie beds as I tip toe sure footedly past them. I get a whiff of freshly brewed coffee that is ready for me, magic is everywhere. A lamp floods the room with softness. Salem is following me, mewing loudly, he is eager to engage me. I have everything I need this morning here in my little humble house on the hill. I have known sad mornings, I have known tragic mornings, I have known mornings of dry eyed despair, and, perhaps, this is how I know the difference. My heart is ever grateful for icy, herbal, windblown, candle lit ordinary dawns in an old house that sits between two mother mountains and is filled with familial love and tragedy, for this is the way of our lives on earth, we must gather the blessings of each dark dawn and count them, one by one.