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I love the sound of a percolator. Something about the surge of the water coming up into the glass cap like an Old Geyser eruption and falling back down into the ground coffee in the canister just feels so like home and hearth. My mother always had a pot going and I loved hearing it, smelling the fresh coffee and waiting for the day I, too, could drink coffee like the grown-ups.
So there it is. It is percolations. I have been writing morning pages and journaling some. I have been working on photo images and the like. All of these are percolations. Whether we like it or not, we are percolating all the time. Sometimes it produces a delicious brew to stimulate the senses and get you going. Sometimes it leads to a blog, like this one, that kicks down the block that only you can move through. And on this, a rare rainy Southern California day, the muse is speaking. And I am paying attention.