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This morning I let myself stay in bed. I told myself, “You can stay in bed because
you didn’t sleep well last night. And
since you are awake at 6am, you may consider this a nap, instead of “sleeping
in”. Because sleeping in isn’t good for
you, as everybody knows. Being a morning
person is a habit of a highly successful person. So I took an early morning nap before getting
out of bed. I got up at 8am. It wasn’t fully light outside, which makes my
early morning nap feel almost like it didn’t even happen, like I didn’t even
waste the most important part of the day by napping. That’s a wonderful relief. When I got up and was sitting in my bed
stretching and looking out the window, Luke joined me and asked me if I slept
poorly. He knows I like to nap in the
mornings if I sleep badly in the night.
-Yes, I couldn’t fall asleep. And then I was awoken by a crying child
shortly after falling asleep. And then I
took an early morning nap to recuperate.
I’m learning how to take care of myself this way. Did you sleep well, Luke?
-I would have slept well, if my brother
hadn’t been crying in the night. I would
have slept straight through the night without even awakening to pee in the
middle of the night, if I hadn’t been awoken.
But once I was awake I went pee anyway.
Then I slept right through until now…
Did you ever notice how the snow stays frozen on the clumps of dry grass
the mower left behind but not on the green growing grass?
-Yes.
It does that. Is it time to get
moving?
We got up off my bed just as Seamus and
Poppy climbed into the warm blankets with a stack of books. I got dressed and put on my yellow jacket
with the new zipper. The seamstress just
happened to have a yellow zipper tab in her sewing box and replaced the broken
one with a brand new yellow one. The new
tab is a little darker than the zipper, but you wouldn’t notice unless you were
the one zipping it, and that’s just me so I’m pleased. My Dad bought me this jacket when I first
moved to Canada in the belief that it gets much colder in Canada than it does
in California and his youngest daughter should be protected against the
cold. I hadn’t packed a jacket. Or given
it a thought. I am sure lucky my Dad bought
it for me though, because it does get pretty cold in Canada. And here I am seventeen years later, still
using that jacket.
I put on my rubber boots, and open the door
to the entry where the dog is looking sleepy-eyes all warm and soft. She has to stand up so I can get out the
door, I cannot step down and over her.
But she likes an early morning nap, and I understand. So I try to step over her, and down out the
door in a clumsy way without pushing the doorbell. She notices that it will be difficult for me
to step over her and she stands up while I’m halfway down and so I squeeze her
between my knees and lean over and hug her fuzzy mane of white fur with both
arms all the way around her neck and kiss her right on the forehead where I
like to smell her doggy warmth, and I say, “Good morning hairy dog.” She says good morning back and then
click-thumps her sleepy feet down the three stairs out onto the driveway.
The grass is crunchy this morning. I walk real slow to hear the crunch
better. It’s as good as breaking the
glass on top of a puddle. It’s as good
as peeling the bark off the birch tree.
It’s as good as having someone braid just one tiny section of my hair
right down low by my neck. Shivers.
“Good morning gooses!” They love it when I say that. They always honk at me and correct my
grammar. “Good morning back, Laura. It’s GEESE.”
When I open the gate the two bravest ones look sideways at me as they
scurry past. The shy one hangs back
until I make the dog sit, and I turn around like something’s terribly
interesting behind me. Then she races
past. When all three are outside the
fence they all laugh like they have played the biggest trick on me. Can you believe she let us out? She has no idea what we’re going to eat in
her garden or where we’re going to poop today!
Yes. They’ve fooled me far too
many times for it to be a coincidence.
Still I like to look out the window and see their graceful soft bodies
swaying side to side as they meander.
How do they decide to where to go?
They’ve not got a very demanding to-do list.
When I get back in the house I make coffee
and toast and oatmeal. When I walk past
my bedroom I notice Seamus lying on his belly reading aloud to Poppy under the
blankets on my bed. This. This is why.
This is why I live.
Everyone steps on everyone else’s toes in
the corner by the toaster. I need a
knife and lean across to the cutlery drawer because if I move my feet someone
will step into my spot and I won’t be able to return to the corner to butter
the toast. I will butter enough for
everyone. I can make more!, I say. Who’s oatmeal is in the microwave? To open the microwave I have to lean the
other way. There’s five of us in the
kitchen. Three of us are trying to make
toast and oatmeal. One of us is laying
on the floor telling a story about a dog who wants to rescue someone using a
helicopter. One of us is standing on the
counter to reach a cup in the cupboard.
Eventually we’re all sitting at the table
for a moment. Luke is done eating just
as I sit down with my coffee. But he
gets up and unloads the dishwasher like he’s supposed to. And he does it without being asked. And he’s still close by, so it feels like
we’re all still having breakfast together.
I wish I had an 8 toast, toaster.
Then maybe we could all eat breakfast together. I’d also need a huge pan to fry a dozen eggs
in at once. We are six people when Dad
is home. And three growing boys. One growing girl. Two adults who no longer eat the largest
helpings at the table. It makes me feel
warm inside when I put food in front of my family. I canned 52 jars of tomato sauce in October,
and every time there was a batch of hot jars sitting on the counter I would
just look at it and feel like This. This
is why. This is why I live.
My stomach feels warm and my head feels so
light. There’s a fullness in me like my
body isn’t big enough for my heart, and I’m near to overflowing. I feel at that moment like there’s enough of
me to go around. I feel generous and
loving toward every created thing. Like
the world is glowing and my breath is shared with every other thing – like
we’re all connected by a sparkling cobweb of connectedness and it’s a wonderful
thing to be alive. It’s a moment. It’s a few heartbeats. And then it goes away. I wish it never had to go away, but then
maybe I’d just stand here staring and smiling dreamily and starve to death…
Soon enough Seamus is gone again and I have
to find him to remind him what he’s supposed to be doing. He just wanders. Like the geese. He has a sufficient to-do list for an 8 year
old, he just can’t be bothered to look at it.
There are so many books to read, and imaginative games to play. Nothing’s nearly as important as that. At least he’s not sitting in my garden
digging carrots and taking one bite out of each one. I look out the window. Yep.
They couldn’t resist. That row of
carrots is now officially goose food.
