There’s a good rhythm to my morning, this morning. There are clothes hanging on the line, tomatoes from my grandmother’s garden are stewing on the stove for freezing, the girls are playing together outside, the baby is napping and before sitting down here, I was happily reading and enjoying cup of coffee while I let my just-washed hair air-dry in the cool breeze coming in the windows.
I love these kinds of mornings, where everything just seems to be working together, where the morning has that steady rhythm to it of work mixed with just a bit of lingering. These are the mornings when I feel like my home is alive and breathing–the back and forth of the washing machine, the gentle bubble from the stove, the sighing of the coffeepot, the chatter of children playing on the rug.
Eventually, I’m sure the day will shift. The breeze coming in the windows will get hot, the children will get tired or hungry and begin to whine and the baby will need me in that same moment, too. The kitchen will be quiet and the pots unwashed, the laundry will be sitting idly in a basket waiting for the next step in its unpredictable journey back into the drawers.
But for now, morning feels good. And I think morning is important. It shapes the day.
"He had things on his mind. At the start of the morning you could feel him aiming himself into the day."
from Andy Catlett, by Wendell Berry