Ah, the best time of all is just after I get up which is 5 A.M. Then I have a couple of hours when things are quiet around here. No 18-wheelers changing gears out on the interstate. Or bikers making the turn-off just a couple of streets away. Or back-up beeps from trunks turning around on this dead-end street. The frequently-visiting family (with dog) across the street is still asleep so no bouncing ball as they shoot hoops--with that methodical "thonk ... thonk" which reverberates throughout my house. And their dog is asleep so no barking. No chain saws taking out a tree, as last evening. No lawn mowing. (I actually don't mind lawn mowing--it never lasts long so you know it's going to stop pretty soon.) No slamming car doors when loading, unloading, or packing the family and dog to go to town, the farmers market ... or maybe home again. ... And then the resident dog-up-the-hill is still inside so she's not barking either.
We used to live in a lovely residential area in another town where we always acknowledged those first spring days after being indoors all winter. We'd take chairs out to the garden and just savor the warmth, the peace. Until the fraternity two doors away savored them too by bringing out their boom box, turning up the music, and having their beer party.
So I value these early hours. I have my tea. I look out and watch the sunlight as it begins to fill my street. The stillness. And I just sit and
am.
Which reminds me of some lines out of Rumer Godden's book,
Thus Far and No Further, about the time during World War II when her husband had gone off and she was about to take her two young daughters and live within view of the Himalayas on a tea plantation near Darjeeling, India. (A beautiful book, by the way.)
"But what in the world will you do there?"
"Live there."
"But what will you
do?"
"Live."
So it is for me at this blessed hour of the day.
