Today I experienced one of those delightful mornings whereby I awoke naturally, well before the alarm’s blasting music was scheduled to jolt me harshly from a sound sleep, feeling remarkably refreshed despite a late-ish evening previous of writing and reading.
I snuggled under the covers and absorbed the sounds that surrounded me: my husband’s steady breathing, punctuated by the occasional snuffling snore… my sweet cat’s softly rumbling purr, increasing in volume when I whispered her name or stroked her velvety chocolate-brown coat… the plink, plunk, trickle of the rain meandering down the skylights… the creaks and cracks of a century-old house filled with memories and history.
I love my attic bedroom.
One of my childhood dreams was to live in a house with an attic – you know, a real attic, not the low-raftered, insulation-stuffed space of “modern” houses accessed only by the non-claustrophobic for utilitarian purposes through a small hole in the roof of the bedroom closet.
No, in my mind I longed for a room at the very top of a house… a magical, hidden space with sloping walls, peaked dormer window, cosy furnishings… a private oasis for daydreams, for naps in the warmth of a sunbeam, for basking in the contentment of soft morning sounds.
I love when childhood dreams come true.
Shared in The Writers’ Post Blog Hop #36
