Sunday, November 17, 2019

Just a few moments out of a day


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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.



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