The morning runs to the airport, International, by the way, if you believe the hype, are always early.
This morning was earlier. It seems that the summer schedule of flights scrubbed an hour off sleepy time, so we were en route by three-thirty.
The conversations on these zero-dark-thirty runs center around whether or not we can avoid deer in the road, and I get instructions on what needs to be done around the house, at camp, or in the realm of banking or laundry.
I don’t need direction, but she knows I forget things that I deem forgettable and recall things of lesser value to others. Men and women do assign differing values to certain tasks and chores, so these discussions are necessary to our long-term viability as a couple.
I spend a lot of time reviewing my limited schedule of appearances in front of stacks of books. I remind myself by leaving notes on the counter. I dread the day I forget to show up at one, but I think it’s bound to happen. I have one tomorrow in Belfast, and one later in the week in South Portland. (1 to 3 in SoPo Books-a-Million)
I told her that I’ll be happy when I clear my schedule of these necessities. But it’s not because I don’t enjoy myself, it’s more because it clutters my view forward.
It probably makes no sense to you, and I can’t explain it with any clarity. It’s safe to say I am a seat-of-the-pants writer, and that cross-pollinates into my general day-to-day.
And, yes, I understand the value of self-assigned electronic reminders from our tethered phones, but I don’t value it as some of my compadres do. I don’t like being told what to do by a human or a computer chip, and I am getting worse at taking directions.
I digress.
Once the drop was successful, I swung into my friend’s emporium of baked goods for a chat, reviewed a several-day-old newspaper that was set to be returned to its publisher for credit, and then went on my way to the house to let Ellie out. She refused to leave her bed at three, and while odd, it wasn’t surprising. She had a long holiday weekend with other dogs, both of them younger and more full of energy.
No, I did not partake in the doughy goodness set before me, because it’s inevitable that one of the first commenters will inquire— I’d consumed enough carbs over the holiday weekend.
Ellie did lift her head when I left the house, but she was clear in our eye-to-eye contact that she was not party to the silliness of summer schedules and the like. I can only assume that she knew from past experience that I’d return in time for her four o’clock feeding. I was a little late, by the way.
Crossing the Penobscot River gave me reason to pause and pull over for a quick photo.
The rising sun illuminated the belly of the clouds to my east, all of them drifting lazily toward some final destination at varying speeds and altitudes, not one of them concerned about schedules and appointments.
It came to me as I wandered back to my driver’s door that to rise each day is the gift, and whether we tear the paper off to get it over with or savor it by slowly peeling back the corners to peek inside, it only lasts twenty-four hours.
So, for you Monday, accept the gift of the rising and unwrap it any way you want.
Ellie looked at me bleary-eyed, then got up and stretched so long that I thought her toenails would never return to their resting position. She got her breakfast, and I had my second cup of coffee.
The gift is in the rising. Enjoy this Monday.
From the Jagged Edge of America, I remain,
TC
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TC