Thursday, October 6, 2011

Clean

or Ambivalence

In the last moments of darkness Orion is almost straight overhead, his stance firm as he tracks the night westward.  He steps across the roofline, and the sky lightens behind him.  His belt and shield gradually fade from view; soon only Betelgeuse at his shoulder and Rigel at his foot remain.  After lingering alone for a while, Cheshire cat-like, they, too, wink out in the growing dawn.

Mornings on the patio have a different flavor these days.  In summer, by the time I settle in the Adirondack chair with a mug of tea, the day is already moving along.  The goldfinches are working on their second course, the hummingbirds on their second squabble, and the garden is lively with light and sound and color and motion.

Now it is still dark when I go outside, the sun barely up when I head back in to get ready for work.  The hummingbirds have taken their squabbles south for the winter, and the goldfinches are still abed.  The crickets have gone silent.  These mornings I cradle the hot mug gratefully between my hands, both for warmth and for company; I had forgotten what the garden is like when it's quiet.  The only sound is the white noise of the highway, the sleepless truck traffic on the long haul to California or Tennessee.

Most mornings are clear, and the distant stars yield gracefully to our own in skies of pale, liquid gold and pink, of Alice blue.  Other mornings are thick with constellations of clouds, nebulae that pulse with energy as the sun glances off them.


Yesterday morning was altogether different, with pearly skies and fresh, moist air.  We had had rain the night before, the kind that lulls you to sleep with its quiet music on the roof and takes care not to wake you when it goes.  It left behind an inch of moisture and washed even the sky clean—the morning was white with thinning clouds, lustrous in the dawn light.



It wasn't a morning for flowers, even though the autumn sage and marigolds and agastache were glowing like jewels under water.  Instead it was a morning for leaves, washed clean of a month's worth of dust, gleaming in the diffused light, gathering, funneling, clinging to each droplet of rain before finally releasing it to quench the earth below and satisfy the thirsty roots at their feet.  A morning for greenery and the cool of serenity.  A morning just right for quiet.



As autumn grows I am aware of night not so much as the waking sphere of hawk-moths and crickets, the appointed time for secret feline rendez-vous, but as the realm of dormancy, of quiet and dreaming.  Dawn is no longer a shifting continuity, the changing of the guard between one set of lives and another, but a boundary between stillness and activity, a line dividing oblivion from alertness.  In the last minutes of darkness out on the patio I am aware of upstairs lights coming on as alarm clocks go off, the rumble of a car starting and the crunch of gravel under tires, the first chirp of the earliest bird turning into a sleepy chorus—aware of each day really being something new, clean, its own, isolated thing, and not the continuation of the moments before.  I'm not sure whether this is good or bad or neither.

Lately, by the time I finish my tea, the last swallow has grown cold.

18 comments:

  1. The unexpected fall rain was so refreshing. I wheeled my trashcan to the curb last night and the air was redolent with the scent of pine and juniper.

    ReplyDelete
  2. Urk, cold tea. I was woken by the cropsprayer roaring overhead at 6. But I sleep on.

    Yours is not the time of day I experience by choice, but what a delightful lyrical description you have woven. Almost. You tempt me to rise and shine with the birds. Almost ;~)

    ReplyDelete
  3. Stacy my mornings are too busy to rise with the sun. I have an hours drive so I am up in darkness, no garden, no sounds. By the time I am on the road and picking up my carpool partner the sun is rising in our faces as we drive East. It is the beauty of that sun I relish. The colors of the sky much like the gorgeous picture you have here. I do need to capture the before the sun rises time on weekends though. Your beautiful description calls me to find time for it. Wonderful post!!

    ReplyDelete
  4. Stacy, this is a beautiful ritual. I am sure this is how our ancestors greeted the day. I am usually watering my containers and checking the veggie garden at that time of day, but afterwards, I do sit down to relish the beautiful morning sun, the singing birds, and the breezes that gently rub my cheek.

    ReplyDelete
  5. When I wake up on weekdays, I usually charge around sorting things that I could have easily prepared the night before. It would never occur to me to open the back door, let alone have a cup of tea in the garden, but you're selling it to me ...

    ReplyDelete
  6. I wake to the light coming through my bedroom window. I've noticed now I generally awake before the light starts to come in. It reminds me of how short the days are getting. Your post is lyrical, and soulful, and beautiful.

    ReplyDelete
  7. I enjoyed what you wrote, but more importantly, how you wrote it. It almost reads like a descriptive novel. Not long like a novel, but well written like one, like being right there in your descriptions. I could 'feel' the quiet.

    ReplyDelete
  8. GirlSprout, wasn't it lovely? The weather forecast I saw just called for isolated showers, and that always makes me roll my eyes and assume the worst. How wonderful to be wrong. That pine and juniper scent is the essence of the west.

    Diana, now, now, don't do anything radical... :) When we were children my sister never understood how I could wake up cheerful in the morning, and I never understood how she could wake up grumpy. Now that we're both in our 40's, we've kind of met in the middle.

    Donna, at least an hour-long commute in your neck of the woods is a lovely thing, probably from beginning to end. And iff you must commute, then how glorious to see the sun rise every day. (As long as coffee is involved, too, of course.) I'm fortunate in this urban setting to have a short commute and a late-starting day.

    Michelle, morning rituals seem to set the whole tone for the rest of the day (at least to me). I'm glad to know a kindred spirit in that regard.

    ReplyDelete
  9. b-a-g, I seem to be completely useless without a cup of caffeine inside me, and there's nothing like turning a necessity into a virtue. Those early moments with a cup of tea are usually my favorite in the day. (Sell, sell, sell.)

    Holley, thank you. Sometimes waking up in the dark can be fun--it reminds me of going on long trips as a kid. But like you say, it also reminds you that the days are getting shorter. Wouldn't it be nice sometimes to hibernate like a bear?

    Donna, that's so kind of you--thank you. I really was trying to capture those moments of hush.

    Thanks, Greggo!

    ReplyDelete
  10. I am so lucky to have found your blog. I adore your writing. It transports me to a gorgeous world where magical things happen.

    ReplyDelete
  11. Lovely - you describe that early morning post-rain feel so well, I can smell it!

    ReplyDelete
  12. nhgarden and Indie, thank you both, and welcome!

    Baffled, that is so sweet of you--thank you. At some point I guess I decided that my contribution to fellow CFS/ME sufferers was going to be a little cheerful escapism. Your comment totally made my day--thank you again!

    ReplyDelete
  13. This was a beautiful post! I really felt this moment. 'A morning just right for quiet.' Perfect.

    ReplyDelete
  14. Thanks, Michelle--I'm glad you enjoyed the post.

    ReplyDelete
  15. Stacy, The poet/philosopher in you is most alluring. Add to that delight an eye for exquisite line and beauty and you have your stunningly unique posts. Lovely writing and photography. I wish my mind were together enough to respond to your poetic prose. Very thoughtful and inspiring.

    ReplyDelete
  16. Carol, you're so kind and giving. Thank you. I'm glad you enjoyed this one--it was such a pleasure to think through and write, even though I'm not really quite ready for the season to turn.

    ReplyDelete