Morning in Indiana this time of year is a wonder. The light on our back porch is soft and the air is just cool enough to wake me up slowly.
I drink my coffee on the swing with the sun on my back. A lemon-scented veil from the Peonies in the flower bed behind me floats nearby. The smell goes well with my Cheerios.
Bully (the chicken) and I stare at the garden for about a half hour (he actually stares at it most of the day as far as I can tell). It’s my irritating tendency to critique the location of everything I’ve ever planted, but in the morning I make the effort to just relax and enjoy the bright bronzy greens that only the light of early day can fill the garden with.
As I stare, I drink my morning coffee from only one of two cups- either a small soft yellow one from the 70s that I inherited from Rosie’s beloved grandmother or a perfectly proportioned rust-colored one from a set that Duane made a few years back. For some reason I like small coffee cups. I tend to be a slow coffee drinker, so smaller ones keep me from ending up with cold coffee.
Mornings weren’t always like this for me.
I can remember a time, roughtly ages 23-31, when I spent the early hours of each day journaling incessantly, analyzing every thought or decision I made the day before or might make later that afternoon. My ramblings typically turned into prayers. Therapy, my analytic tendencies, and my Southern Baptist heritage were a bit too much of a match made in heaven. I ignored what morning is all about.
Recently I cleaned out a bedroom dresser and found those old journals. I read through some of them, but when I found myself reprimanding the 2007 Troy for critiquing the 1998 Troy who was most likely criticizing the “day before whatever I was reading” Troy, I put them away.
These days I try to live a little more in the moment and use my senses rather than my thoughts to start the day. It’s not that I don’t value personal reflection; I just tend to get my daily allowance without much need for supplements.