Sunday Scribbling: Morning
Morning. The crack of dawn, glow ball of light creeping up the horizon. I have spent many days driving home at dawn, watching the sky turn fiery shades of orange, exhausted and ready for bed. I often wonder these days if I have had too much sunrise in my life, then looking forward in my days know I have not had enough. Memory tells me of staying up in close proximity to friends and love ones waiting for the emanating beauty of that sunrise. She offers me moments when once I woke up by dawn’s light comfortably close in bed. She tells me how dawn captures everything new in the world.
Morning. Fresh brewed coffee steeping in kitchens. That ritual of bathrobe, coffee and newspaper or magazine, missed these days, harbor a warm place in the mornings of my life. Cutting out the rushed routine of living, it’s the right cup of Joe – earthy, warm, and full bodied dark – that slows down time and me with it. That cup of really bad java at the diner with a mixture of friends who know how to laugh, or on the road when this self becomes a traveler stopping on the side of the road for the first cup of brew before heading into the between that lives on roads traveled. Morning and coffee are good to me.
Morning. The stretch of the body getting taller, arms spread out, back arched, butt tightly squeezed as the body yawns. There is nothing like the morning stretch. Nothing like waking in the day’s dawn and welcoming the conscious back into the body.
Morning. Years spent kind of sleeping through it, preferring the harbor of late night living and early afternoon rising, I have come to appreciate the morning for the graceful beauty it is. Entering the full fledge workforce, morning was this blasphemes thing that welcomed in horrid routine and low-ceiling living of a paycheck. I have since given up that world, so I could love the morning for what she is. She is a good thing.