There is not yet that faint shimmer of light reaching over the horizon. Not one baby sparrow has peeped forth a note to wake his mama. No alarm has sounded, taking me to task. I rise from an inner stirring joyously beckoning me. Undaunted by laden lids and uncooperative joints I make my way downstrairs to my special place, my room with wide windows that takes in all of my world, the hills, the basin, the town below.
My morning chair patiently waits for me each dawn. It wouldn't receive anyone else that early. I nestle down into its welcoming warmth, the pliant leather surprisingly inviting after a night alone. My cup of sweet bitter coffee in hand, I'm ready for my rising ritual. From here I make my daily tour.
I call on my mountain always first. The mountain formerly known as Shasta has been renamed Mt. Susan in our house. Often it greets me in all its majesty, bold and brilliant, effortlessly diminishing others in its shadow. Yet I love it best when it toys with me, slowly unveiling its splendor from behind mists and darkened days, making me wait, linger longer on this part of my visit.
My town is next with left-over lights and new awakenings. The magic of the twinkle in the basin below, catches me by surprise each time I look, like waking up on my birthday to shiny ribboned packages that are all for me. I imagine the lives inside these homes, scuttling and bustling, readying themselves for what the day holds in store. I wonder, are they imagining back at me? A row of lights suggests a string of busy morning merchants; bakers, newsboys, produce peddlers, hopeful that a bright start will bring the luck of the "early bird." A first car pushes through on the thoroughfare, and it's time to move on.
Of course, I couldn't miss my cat search. Through the pane, I seek out the stalking neighborhood feline. She makes an entrance to our yard, leaping far from fence to weed patch, landing with a perfect acrobat's stick. High grass hides her as she crawls on belly, closer and closer to an imaginary prey. She never catches a thing, but me. She sees me; I know she does, her little scenario played out daily just for me.
My focus must rest inside now, for, too soon, upstairs' stirrings will start, and I will have to give my spot over to the household. Much still to do as I wrap up tighter in the nubby comfort of my familiar cotton throw, settling myself for the necessary business of taking care of me. I'm not sure why I can't open my meditation books without first fingering the slick cool surfaces of the covers. It's a safe secret ritual that seals my special time. a time to set my focus, enfold my inspiration. I am not willing to give this up, no matter how rushed.
My morning journey is over too quickly, though I must pass nigh an hour. As I listen to the satin ribbon rhythm of the rockers sliding on the rug and enjoy the smooth sturdy oak arms of my cradle, I find my way to greet the day.