Write

I love to write.
I mean, I really love to write.
The action of it.
The shadow of my pen.
The changed texture of the backside of a paper that has just been written on.
Oh, and the feel of the pen in my hand.
The ink forming words on a blank page.
Just my hand and the paper; nothing else. 

The other day I missed my morning pages; the time early in the morning when I just write without any expectation or purpose.  I laughed to myself the next morning when I noticed a part of my brain that was disappointed.  What I understood though, or what I felt, was that I missed the writing.  The action of it; the beauty of it and how, really, it is a way for me to be friends with myself.  Good friends.  What I missed was sharing this time with myself in the morning doing something that the whole of me loves. 

What do you do that helps you be friends with yourself?  Where can your mind and soul meet on common ground?  Find it.  Do it.  Every day.