Morning pages

The cold front buffeted the house throughout the night; I woke to it a zillion times.
The screeching wind scattered pot plants that I thought were quite stable; it also filtered ash (from the bleak-black-winter-burnt veld on the hills surrounding town) through poorly insulated windows and frames, not at all unlike my soul that has been severely sifted these last 2,5 months.
This morning: peace on every level. The wood stove in the kitchen is roaring, warming up the house; I'm cranking it up to the max: snap, crackle, pop.
I'm sitting in my ugly-comfortable chair that's bathed in sunshine directly from the east, where I've gulped down a steaming bowl of green tea.
The wild but beautiful tortoise shell is curled shrimp-like on my lap; I'm about to begin my morning pages: "Dear God, thank you for meeting me here at the pages, thank you for walking me into the eye of the storm..."