this morning, for four minutes (+giveaway winner)

this morning, i had a sliver of time. between packaging etsy sales and setting my hair in rollers and running out the door with my zucchinni bread sliding out of my hands.

i had exactly four minutes.

i wrapped my hands around my mug and sat in my absolute favorite spot in the house, propped up on the kitchen counter, looking out over the yard. a sunbeam hit me square between the eyes. i let my gaze rest on the gravel drive, then a bird running across the grass. then i shut my lids and breathed in the cool, new morning, whispering a prayer while robert and pablo slept in the room nearby.

practically 20 hours of crazy were sitting there, waiting for me. and i'm convinced that moment prepared me for it. with my legs dangling against the cabinets and seven thirty on the horizon.

it's amazing what a little sunlight can do.

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p.s. thank you ALL for entering my shabby apple giveaway! the winner is:

congratulations April! i'll send you an e-mail with all the details.

the rock candy's melted, only diamonds now remain

 

 

let it be known that i love sleeping in. this is a new-found phenomena, one gently and slowly revealed to me through marriage to a man who relishes his rest. who, with one arm draped over his head, will sink into the mattress and soak up all the deliciousness that cool sheets and a warm quilt can offer. and for a girl used to going to bed with the sun still draping himself over the countryside, and rising before he pokes his head up over the hills, i have truly learned the beauty and importance of a deep, sound sleep.

but sometimes, oh sometimes. there's just nothing quite like a morning in the country. with shed lights peeping on with the wind and oak branches spinning outside. with frost on the ground and over the lampposts.

this morning, i woke at five and made country ham. i sat in an old farm kitchen and warmed my hands on a coffee mug as the meat simmered and spat in the skillet. and i drug mr. sleepyhead himself into the bright yellow chairs. the morning still black, we talked and ate. and slowly, ever so slowly, we awoke. to the day. to ourselves, to each other. and i declare, it was almost better than a late morning snuggled next to the window. almost.

but more so the flutter

you tell me all the time you love to watch me sleep. in the nook of the couch around midnight. in the bed at six in the morning, before any living creature is roused and our tiny room is washed in dark.

but i love the flutter of waking. when your eyes shift around under their lids and i can tell you're emerging. out of that deep dream and into the warmth of the quilt, and my my hands in your hair. that look of confusion that quickly gives way to recognition, oh hey, i know you. and for that split second, before words crush the moment and deflate the cocoon, there's a holy peace, a sacred space. yes, i suppose i love the flutter of it all more so than the dreaming.

shedding our summer skin

i woke in a fit. hours early. before that five-thirty moonlight fights with the six o'clock sunrise and creates a jagged spill of light onto our quilt.

and when it's a fit that wakes you, falling back to sleep is unbearable. i laid in the silence and thought for an hour until it was a logical time to stretch my weary arms and rouse pablo outside. there is no stiller moment, no calmer minutes, than those before everyone wakes. even nighttime, with its blanket of black, still buzzes with the aura of exhaustion. with twisting and turning and crickets outside and creaks and cracks as this old farmhouse settles its bones into a slumber.

but the morning? the morning is for thinking, and i thought. surprisingly, i found myself reminiscing. looking over at robert, his arm tucked under his neck and his legs tangled in the covers. that yellow quilt he hates because it's hot but i love because it's vintage. and over at pablo curled up in a tiny ball, the rise and fall of his downy chest the only flutter of movement around. thinking about how even now, even this morning, time is slipping and moving and roller coastering. wondering if my one-day babies will ever know pablo, at least the pablo i know now. it's getting harder for him to jump up on the bed and it's breaking my  heart.

and i don't take enough photographs. oh i take digital pictures plenty. but they stay on my camera or on my phone. i haven't made a photo album since high school. it was this realization that made me the most sad.

and, to top it all off, the tomatoes are gone.

the tomatoes that robert's grandpa watered twice a day for months. sent home to us in paper bags with little notes from his grandma. we ate the last one yesterday. the plants have shriveled and wilted and now fall is marching in with its heavy boots.

so i prayed for time to crawl and sunk back into the darkness, cocooning myself in the sacred space of morning, willing the sun to rise a little slower, the moon suspended a little longer. just enough time to take it all in, before it all starts moving at lightning speed once again.

a morning regret

my darling,

i'm sorry i didn't get up this morning to run the circle with you. it was 5:30 a.m. and i was tired down into my bones. and the aroma of crock-pot chicken was wafting through the cottage. and pablo was curled at my feet, making a warm spot with his breathing belly. and there was no place i wanted to be but tucked in those cotton sheets, the sun not yet risen. plus, you see, i've got these new bangs to maintain. and running would throw my morning routine off a bit, but i digress.

but then, about an hour later, i awoke. and sunlight was slowly rising behind the blinds. and i reached over to your side of the bed, still in that half dream state. for a second, i forgot where you were, and i was scared and sad until i went outside to find you leaning against the porch. and i'd stay awake forever to see those crinkly eyes.

you waved goodbye to me this morning still in your sweats. and i smiled the entire drive to work.

hemingway was right

 the blueberry bush produced this week!

i like to ease into my mornings.

there is a sweet envelope of time between waking and starting the day. when i'm still in that hazy half-dream state and the dew on the grass outside is magical. when the sunshine falls in slivers between the pin oaks and the earth is still cool with damp darkness.

it is this nugget--this sacred, special gap between sleep and energy that i love most of any waking hour. i think primarily because of the promise it holds. i like to hop up on my kitchen counter in my pajamas and eat my fruit, looking out onto the long, empty country road. in less than an hour, i will be in an office chair. i will divide my glance between two computer monitors. i will meet deadlines, edit copy, and call salesmen.

but at 6:30 in the morning, i am just me. a 24-year-old awake. with a husband and pup sleeping in the next room. with my hands wrapped around a hot mug of coffee and a little bowl of blueberries resting in my lap. and it is good. i declare, it is completely good.

and the day might not live up to its promise. days just don't sometimes. but that moment of magical believing is worth getting up early for. the sun might set today without anything spectacular happening. it might just be a ho-hum repetition of spreadsheets and reports broken up by coffee breaks. i might go to bed without any true accomplishment. yes, the sun will set on this day.

but the sun also rises.

she loves the sunrise, no longer sees it with her sleeping eyes

i used to think i needed someone in front of me while i exercised. a lithe instructor. an enterprising college student making beer money teaching free cardio classes at the university gym. a woman in a sports bra and spandex, consoling me through my television, just a few more reps.

but this morning,  i woke early. i slipped on my flannel pants and fleece jacket. i read scripture on an old round, wooden table. the one passed down to me, with the drink rings, scratches and that one place i left the iron sit on for too long. i ate cheerios as i read, and drank pulp-less orange juice from a plastic cup splayed with my alma mater. i missed the pulp.

then i took my pilates mat outside. to our side porch. where the trees surround and our little white glider sits. there are still hooks in the ceiling where hanging baskets used to sway. and i laid my body down on the hot pink foam, and waited for the sun to come. and as i waited, i stretched. i moved. twisted. downward dogged. and i realized something:

the body knows. 

it just knows. how to move and free itself, work out those kinks and pops and aches. and yes, classes are wonderful, and there's certainly something to be said about the motivation of a group atmosphere. but there's also something about the way the sun bounces off an elm tree. the way the fading night swirls into the clouds. the way my thick blue socks felt against the pavement.

and the way i was reminded. of the beautiful, complex work of art that our bodies are. i vowed to get up early tomorrow morning, and do it all over again. yes. prayer, cheerios, and sunrise salutations. i think a girl could get used to this.

and the songbirds keep singing like they know the score

xxxxxx

this summer, i did not need an early alarm.

every day, at 6:30 in the morning, like clockwork. i was sweetly, softly, pulled awake.


by a singsong. a melody unlike any other. a little falsetto followed by a short lived baritone. a songbird.


our bed is right beside a window. a big, old window that faces a meadow and a clothesline. blueberry bushes and apple trees.


and when the weather was just warm enough, little birds. i kept the blinds closed to keep out the blinding sun, so i never saw firsthand this delightful alternative to my timex, but it knew exactly, precisely, how much time i would need to wake up, prepare myself for the day, and head out in my honda in time for work.


i named him roger. i presumed him to be male, but in reality, it might have been a lovely lady bird.


yesterday morning, with  hours left to sleep before church, my heating pad on a delicious full blast, and pablo curled at my toes, i heard a familiar, albeit all but forgotten chorus.


roger was back. the brief reprieve of warmth that came with the weekend was enough to draw him out of winter hiding and back to my windowsill.


they're calling for more snow in north carolina this weekend, and inevitably, roger will return to where he came from. storing up those sweet vibratos for springtime.


but at 6:30 on a sunday morning, i was reminded.


that every day brings new surprises. new beginnings. new blessings.


and yes, 


new chances to puff up our chests, look toward the heavens, and sing a song of joy toward a Creator who listens, and who always knew we'd come back. no matter how long we've been away.

replacing time

there's a little window beside my desk at work. all spring long, i sat and watched as little furball goslings stumbled behind their mamas. then, when summer arrived, i watched those goslings grow up into geese, navigating between the parked cars, scavenging for crumbs of take-out burgers, morning biscuits, or packed sandwiches. it was a beautiful evolution from baby to adult, all in a span of about three months.

but now fall has descended, taking away daylight savings time, and by 4:30 in the afternoon, my little window has turned black. the sun sets so incredibly early now, i can't see the geese. i can't see anything at all. the day feels so short. to me, sunlight equals energy. over the summer, when the sun was suspended in the sky until almost 9:00 p.m., it was as if the evening had endless possibilities. robert and i took countless walks down our road, we had many late night drive-through runs for wendy's frosties. we sat on our swing at watched the sun setting late.

now, we're ready for bed by 9:00, not walking in the fields. our eyelids begin to droop as soon as supper is over. watching glee last night took all the energy i could muster. it's not that i'm overly exhausted or overworked. it just that as sunlight=energy, darkness=sleepy.

so we created a plan. we decided to take that extra hour returned to us and instead of staying up later, we vowed to get up one hour earlier. this morning was our first try. we got up at 6 a.m. and selected a yoga television program on demand. i pulled on my leggings, drug my pilates mat out of the closet, and got ready for a half hour of relaxation, stretching and calm. but then we realized something. we neglected to read the description of the show. it was a jillian michaels yoga program. let me just tell you, this was not yoga, what she did. well, it was yoga, just yoga on about ten cups of coffee. five minutes in, i was already sweating. when she moved from a plank into push-ups, that's when we began to hate our lives just a little.

i looked over at robert, who had retreated to child's pose, his arms stretched out in front of him. we both looked at each other then silently, he turned the television off and we jumped back into bed, with 20 minutes left to sleep. and at that hour of morning, with the sun just creeping up, and a warm, dozing puppy curled up at my toes, 20 minutes was golden.

so we failed this morning. or did we? we tried. we know now that we are at least capable of waking up that early. so we'll do it again tomorrow. we'll try again. and maybe we'll fail again, but at least we'll fail together. but then--then we will grow together too. just like the geese. 

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