It is 3 P.M and I am roaming the kitchen looking for something. Something to eat maybe. I am not hungry, just “nudgy.” Not nudgy for food necessarily, just restless. Or maybe tired. Or bored. But it is 3 P.M. and I have now opened and closed all the cabinet doors, rejected dates and stoned wheat crackers and chocolate pudding and organic chicken noodle soup.

I have also rejected cereal and popcorn and almonds and all things in boxes that need to be “prepared.” I do not want to prepare. I don’t know what I want, but something has moved me into the kitchen. I feel like I am playing “Hot-Cold” and I am “Freeeeezing.”

But like I said, it’s 3 P.M., the time of day when my biorhythms hit bottom. I do not even have to look at the clock to know it is 3 P.M. and in fact, I haven’t looked at the clock. “It” is not 3 P.M., “I” am 3 P.M. And it is early summer and I am in my kitchen looking through the refrigerator. I don’t want milk. I don’t want cheese. I don’t want anything in here. I open the freezer. I shut it immediately.

I look at the appliances. I do not want toast. I don’t think I can handle the sound of the juicer or the blender right now, because right now there is no sound in the house except for a bird chirping outside and the drone of a distant lawn mower.

I think I want sweet. But what? An apple? A banana? I don’t know. I don’t know what I want. I’m just nudgy. Tea. Maybe I’ll boil water and make tea. I stand at the sink, looking out while the water heats. There is a small bird at the feeder. It’s yellow. A warbler? A finch? It looks delicious. I contemplate a little finch sandwich, with mustard, on rye toast. Yes.

But no.

The kettle starts to whistle. I pour the boiling water over the bag and take my cup to the porch. There is a little wind blowing and a male redwing blackbird is “oak-a’lee”ing in the maple. Too big for a sandwich, I think. Probably tough, too, and would require a large roll rather than a thin piece of toasted rye.

The tea does not satisfy. Why is it I always want a cookie with tea? No cookies in the house, though. Just as well. But still, I nudge.

I am hungry, but not physically. On a scale of 1 to 6 with 1 being “Not hungry at all” and 6 being “Ready to pass out” my physical hunger is maybe a 2.

I roam the yard, looking for whatever will satisfy me at 3 P.M. on an early summer day that won’t involve eating a finch. The tea cup warms my hand, a little breeze blows, I get goose bumps.

I return to the kitchen and open the cabinet under the sink. I wish Windex were drinkable because I need something blue. “Getting warmer” says the chorus in my head that is still playing “Hot-Cold.”

OK. Blue. I want something blue, but not necessarily to eat or ingest. I migrate back to the porch. The sky is blue. OK. Nothing there, though.

But wait, maybe that’s what I want. Not the sky, but nothing. A big nothing. A lot of nothing. A considerable amount of perfectly prepared nothing. A little nothing on rye toast. Some nothing with a redwing blackbird, a maple tree, and tea.

I sit down in the chaise, put my teacup on the floor, kick back and absorb the nothing. The nothing of the sky, the nothing of the day, the nothing of my body, the nothing of my kitchen, the nothing of 3 P.M. “Hot! Hot! Hot!” screams the chorus in my head, still playing “Hot Cold.”

Hot. Hot. Hot.

Kathleen Thompson is the owner of Main Street Yoga, 10 S. Main St., Mansfield, PA 16933. To contact her call 570-660-5873 or online www.yogamansfield.com or email mainstreetyoga@gmail.com.