Early Saturday morning

Too stifling, even at that sleepy hour, so I left the air conditioning to run all night.  I stayed up late watching Father of the Bride 2 and Sleepless in Seattle with my daughter, shows she had somehow missed in her 15 years but that are classics she should have in her back pocket.  After a prayer, just the two of us, I climbed into my darkened bed way past my usual time.  And slept deeply, waking only once, briefly.  And then again at 5, my favorite time in the summer.  The light just creeping out, birds greeting the day, the refreshing coolness of the night invigorating my warm body.  I wasn’t ready to commit to the day, and yet I couldn’t remain in a dark air-conditioned state when the world itself was ready to be awake.  At that early hour I threw open every window in the house, pulled away the blinds, and beckoned the light and the cool air to come join me for just a little more sleep.  Intoxicating, peaceful dreaminess ensued as I rested cocooned by my nature sounds and feels: sprinklers in the distance, an occasional vehicle on a far-off road, the bird songs of course, the crispness caressing my exposed shoulders encouraging me to nestle down just a little further into the covers.  I sighed with contentment and slept just a little while more.

I drifted off without care, it’s Saturday after all, no pressing responsibilities or deadlines or appointments, a day to myself without my family needing me.  I relish driving the streets at this early hour when I must.  Downtown loses its mystery in the early morning as I take my daughter to her Farmer’s Market post at 7:30, its crowds dispersed, its buildings exposed, its quiet halls still. Normally there’s so much cacophony and distraction, I delight in the opportunity of having the streets to myself.  Some mornings I might venture to garage sales or take a walk and maybe even once a year we’ll go to breakfast.  I might spend time in the yard, wet from its bath.  I may feel ambitious enough to tackle a home project or start a load of laundry, although I hate to interrupt the silent sleepiness of the others.  Every now and then, if I’m all alone, I’ll prop my pillows up and read for a spell.  But mostly I write.  Tiptoeing down the narrow staircase, I’ll find my familiar perch and feel an alive and well, albeit drowsy, version of myself here at my desk.  More than nearly any other activity in a day, writing feels like coming home. I luxuriate in moments such as these and look forward to them as few others. I fall back asleep with no expectation and no agenda, just blissful peace and gratitude for a morning such as this.

As I awake only a bit later, I see that 6:30 has arrived, as it always does; and I’m ready.  I can sleep no longer.  I must greet the day with my whole heart and see what it has to offer.  There’s no way to pretend I can’t hear it or smell it or see it or even feel it.  Everything within me chooses to be with it rather than miss it. Sleep can be had at any time of the day, but these early hours are fleeting, rejuvenating, refreshing, and calming, reminding me that our world is a beautiful home, that there is still much good in it, that this morning is a gift to savor.