It’s 6:50 am. I have created a sub sandwich with ham, lettuce, tomatoes, havarti cheese, deli mustard, salt and pepper, and also a scrambled egg, ham and cheese breakfast wrap. The one I wrapped carefully in plastic and set beside a freeze pac, the other – a sheet of paper towel and a duvet of tin foil. My husband has a long day ahead of him. He had a very long day yesterday, too.
I brewed coffee, some for me and a to-go mug for my son. I wonder if he has enough gas in his car. This morning I went straight to the office computer with my coffee, avoiding the comfort of bed or couch. (See, these details can be divulged!) I wonder, when I am working more again, if I will still have the energy to rise at 6 and continue these rites.
The trouble isn’t the rising at 6, it’s the awake at 4:30 and then the eventual rise, eyes heavy, brain disgruntled, muffling the alarm on it’s first feeble cries. As a young mom, I remember longing for sleep. I would tell my husband, “Honey, if I could just go to a hotel room for one night, by myself, and sleep — that is all I ever want in this world.” I’m somewhat glad the knowledge of middle-aged sleep battles was out of my reach. How was I to know that instead of little ones’ wails or roars jolting me upright, it would be my own idiotic thoughts and ridiculous bladder? Oh, the betrayal! I’m trying to remember if there was a lull between toddler and teenager where I actually slept…maybe, but there was the marking and the Sunday Scaries to say “BOO!!” in the wee hours.
I’ve reheated the coffee and still don’t know what this blog post is about.
Let me see…mornings…no…narcissistic rambling…not really (but I do have Several Thoughts on Narcissism waiting in the wings)…sleep…? Perhaps. Changes? I’ve already waxed on about that for entire posts.
I think it’s about always looking ahead to when the problems will be solved. Straining eyes and neck, peering as far as possible to plan, fix, control, help, and somehow get this wagon train out of the river, fix the wheels, and get on the trail to the promised land. Pa and Ma are growing weary of the dust and the constant watching for robbers and thieves. It’s been so many years! When do we get to build the log cabin in the peaceful woods? Pa stares into the fire, gun loaded and across his knees. Ma watches the darkness, shoulders tense and quiet, hand on the forehead of a darling, sleepy child. The West holds such promise, she whispers to herself. Surely we will all get there safely.
In the novel or the movie, they will. In real life, probably not. Or they will arrive, but maimed and scarred and pieced together after heavy loss. This is the way the world ends, not with a Bang! but a Whimper.
All of this is very dismal! Surely, there is light? Ah, of course there is light. It’s dancing on the leaves as the wagon rolls gently, glinting off the water as the creek meanders by. It’s shining in the eyes of the children and the friends, and setting with the melting orange sun as an old song is sung, glittering with fireflies and a sliver of moon with the coming of night.
And that is what I’m writing about. Straining ahead with worried faces, we miss the dance of light. We miss the moments with our loved ones, thinking always of the future. Watching for enemies, we miss the presence of friends. Seeing life in stark black and white, we miss the nuance, the colour, the hue and shade, the in-between. All of our stories have valleys and hills; no one escapes calamity, embarrassment, or failure. Some of us get very good at forgetting or glossing over our true stories, or distract by pointing out the flaws and faults of So-and-So to take the focus off of our own issues, yes. But if we’re honest, we know this rutted trail is filled with both danger and delight.
It’s 8:00 am. I am behind on my garden watering and weeding plans, and my coffee is cold. The stresses of yesterday are still standing there with anxious look, wringing their hands and breathing sighs. Let them stand.
I will feel the soft breeze coming in the window, I will listen to the sound of the sprinkler gently falling on leaves, I will send the emails and compose the plans and settle the situations, and hear birds and see the purple daylilies blooming. Somehow, we must hold on to the beautiful moments of living, because that’s all we really have. All of our completed tasks, our plans, our gathered possessions…will one day be left behind, and the beautiful moments are what friends and family will have of us to smile about and remember.
The wagons rumble. Wheels squeak, flies buzz. The dust and sun have parched the land and the lips of the riders. The horizon is fuzzy, a mirage wavering, creating shapes that dart and loom. In the cool of the canopy, a small hand rests in a rough and warm one, and the moment is sealed in comfort and love. We’ll get there.
Stories for Humans 