Waking Early
Why I wake early—though what has not already been said? Except that I love to pad, alone, through the dim and hush of the quiet house, Petting the head of the cat curled up on the couch, still sleeping. Seeing, often, and usually without remorse, last night’s dishes still in the sink; Listening to the sound of the early morning winds, rising and shifting and sighing, buffeting the strong still walls of this house, as they ever and still remain, solid; Smiling softly to myself in this sweet time of hush and dim, as my mind has happily not yet begun to tick through its every-ready—seeming ever-growing—list of longing and wishing and second-guessing and regret. Not yet. And, too, the morning making of the coffee— the smelling, scooping, pouring, sipping; Hearing, far off, your soft sleep sounds, as you lie, in night’s surrender still. And settling into my seat for a sit—quiet, alert, sitting long and tall and soft— watching, at last, in worship and wonder, the miracle of my own breath’s rhythm, flowing in and flowing out, noticing and knowing that there is nothing, at last, that I need to do, giving thanks that this breath knows already what to do and how to do it. Grateful, that in this early morning moment, in the lovely hush and dim, for just this one breath, at least, everything is fine and lovely and perfect, just as it always already is.
Chris Warner, November 25th, 2010, 5 am
