I'm writing this from my iPhone as I sit on my couch. Pillows behind me, two ice packs surrounding my left shoulder. There's a hot cup of coffee in my left hand. And a warm handsome dog curled up next to me. A curious kitty wanders the house, making her funny little noises, Grumbly little sounds -- somewhere between a purr and an animal song. (You can figure that one out; I'm still trying to. Cats produce some very interesting sounds to say the least.)
The first morning of daylight savings time. Rising up to light outside is quite gratifying. It's not easy to want to get up and face your day when darkness still surrounds the entire of everything. I find that a headful of plans and a desire to be productive does not always agree with what my body feels. I may need to hire an intermediary to counsel us on finding common ground.
It's quiet. The house. The neighborhood. Even objects seem to radiate a lack of noise. The living room chair, with its brown duct tape holding up the corners where our now dead cat, Fabio, used to scratch to satisfy the itch in his long nails. My children sleep. My husband sleeps. Even the regular rumble of the refrigerator and the washing machine seems muted this morning. Cleaning the kitchen, the clanging dishes coming out of the dishwasher, the screech of metal pans against metal bowls, these sounds of industry seemed to die as soon as they departed the objects and rose into the air.
I notice that even that sounds within my own mind seems softer, kinder, not nearly as potent as usually they are. As if somehow this gift of an additional hour into life is being recognized in this year of hurry and hectic; a year where the endless yammering of the Presidential election race causes even small children to cry and wish for peace on the other side of this Tuesday's election. Well, little girl, I don't know about peace but maybe just a little bit more normalcy. Whatever that means in this era of technology and pundits.
Out my kitchen window this morning, I watched my neighbor two houses down as she raced outside in a bikini top and shorts, two little blonde headed children in tow -- her boys are practically grown, with one in college and one in high school, so I wonder who these two little ones are -- and I think what I saw was her taking the top off the hot tub. And then, one by one, she carefully lifted each child up and into the tub. At one point her husband rushed out. He stood there and it he appeared to be merely an onlooker, enjoying the scene. (If I was him I probably would, too. His wife is a very attractive woman.) It's probably 37° or 40° outside. Overcast and gray. A mild breeze sifting the leaves on the ground and stirring air that was touched by rain just last night. Their little pool party, perhaps something promised in the dead of night when the children wouldn't sleep, seemed an appropriate way to usher in the fall season and this gift of an extra hour of daylight. It made me smile. A quiet smile. A smile that started on my lips and burrowed down into the center of me. A smile that I almost wanted to walk down the street and share with them. But I kept it to myself. And basked in the warmth that it created.
As is my joyful habit, I then reached down and leaned over my white dog, the dog who adores a vigorous rump scratching each morning, and I pulled him close to my robed chest -- the years-old robe that my husband and son swear stinks, and it does emit a rather interesting odor along the chest section which, coincidentally, is also the part which rubs against a lab-fragrant Hankie Mutt when I embrace him each morning -- and loved on him, whispering sweet nothings into his floppy, soft, silky ears.
I don't know what it is, folks. There's something special about this morning. Something mellow. I like to think it's not just me who feels it but perhaps the entire neighborhood, the entire city, the entire state, or could I be so grand as to imagine the entire country: the stillness before the storm. What storm that might be, whether for me, my family, my neighbors, my town, this wonderfully green and friendly state, or this nation fraught with tumult and left and right and wrong, I don't know.
What I do know is that on this morning, this soft powdery gray Sunday morning, the approaching storms matter little. If I'm unable to enjoy the calm before, then I will be unable to handle the chaos on the other side. So I leave the contemplation of those things which have not yet arrived for a Monday morning.
Until that morning, have yourself a mellow Sunday. Visit a friend. Embrace a child. Eschew technology for a bit. Drink a cup of hot chocolate with marshmallows on top or warm your belly with a mug of tea and cookie or two. Walk the dog. Walk with your spouse. Paint your toenails. Clip your toenails. Freeze your extra hour of precious time and bask in each second.
Slow down. That's what people always tell me.
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