It is early. It is Monday. I've been trying to be sure and be up and at 'em around 6am every morning Mon-Thur. I like to have quiet mornings to myself. With a husband on the night shift you'd think that would be easy. But unless I am up at 6 or during school sometimes 5, it isn't possible. It's been great to go out and spend sometime weeding and mowing a little bit everyday. Sometimes I remember and take the radio out with me and listen to Morning Edition on NPR. I'll be heading out there in a few minutes. The sun has turned the clouds on the horizon gold, I can see them through the trees in my neighbor's back yard. The birds will be singing, the crickets will be scattering, mornings are magic to me. It's not something I think I could share with anyone, and I know I enjoy it best when I'm alone. I've always liked to be alone in the mornings. Which, when I was younger I think was weird to some, and hard for my fellow morning person dad.
Why am I writing this? I should be doing my morning pages. I was thinking about that word. Morning. Mourning. One of my dearest friends is going through something, mourning. I am mourning. It's a strange process that takes everyone differently, I think I've avoided the pages because that's where I can write anything, and I don't know if I want to. But I do know that I need to. Guess I better get to it then.
It is early. It is Monday. I've been trying to be sure and be up and at 'em around 6am every morning Mon-Thur. I like to have quiet mornings to myself. With a husband on the night shift you'd think that would be easy. But unless I am up at 6 or during school sometimes 5, it isn't possible. It's been great to go out and spend sometime weeding and mowing a little bit everyday. Sometimes I remember and take the radio out with me and listen to Morning Edition on NPR. I'll be heading out there in a few minutes. The sun has turned the clouds on the horizon gold, I can see them through the trees in my neighbor's back yard. The birds will be singing, the crickets will be scattering, mornings are magic to me. It's not something I think I could share with anyone, and I know I enjoy it best when I'm alone. I've always liked to be alone in the mornings. Which, when I was younger I think was weird to some, and hard for my fellow morning person dad.
Why am I writing this? I should be doing my morning pages. I was thinking about that word. Morning. Mourning. One of my dearest friends is going through something, mourning. I am mourning. It's a strange process that takes everyone differently, I think I've avoided the pages because that's where I can write anything, and I don't know if I want to. But I do know that I need to. Guess I better get to it then.
2 comments:
Thinking of you as you go down this path of mourning, it is a process and I'm not sure it is ever truly finished it just takes on different colors and textures. My mom died August 19, 2003. I hadn't really been consciously thinking about it but then the other morning I woke up missing her and remembered why I was missing her and the color and was a shade a beautiful shade of purple and the texture was silk.
Ahh...the splendor of it all! How we mourn says a lot about our character and inner self. Those who refuse to grieve and live through the sadness of loss - have missed some of life's greatest blessings. I started mourning for Grammy the first time I went to visit her alone and the grand lady I had known for more than three decades was not there. I pray that when my time comes, there will be no lingering.
Thank you for being a compassionate friend to those who are fortunate enough to touch your beautiful life.
You will always be my sweet cinda lou!
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