This morning is way too early rising, dark coffee and lots of it, a sweater over summer pajamas that were warm enough when I went to bed but suddenly leave me cold. This morning is curled in a comfy chair lost in story, traveling in time to another world a gifted novelist has spun like silk from his own imagination.
This morning is yoga on a sky-blue mat, unrolled on a whim in the middle of the kitchen floor. This morning is arms reaching to heaven, breath expanding, ribcage spreading, heart opening.
This morning is waiting, waiting for light to overtake this darkness. It is cold-sounding rain, wind ushering out the last of summer and sweeping it impatiently out the door like a guest who overstayed her welcome.
This morning is a rainbow carpet, orange, crimson, gold, a kaleidoscope fallen from the trees and settled for one brief moment under my feet before rushing away to grace another’s.
This day will be steaming hot oatmeal with raisins and brown sugar cinnamon, little dogs in yellow raincoats walking through puddles, Yorkshire Gold tea, thoughtful poems and lovely magazines, a crying kind of movie on DVD, a nap in the big green chair. It will be Chopin nocturnes on the stereo, my fingers playing a ghostly duet in my head even as they slice carrots, potatoes, and onions for slow-cooker soup.
This day will be candles at dusk, cheese and crackers on an small round plate from Portugal. It will be fire in the fireplace, my husband’s hand to hold, a list of our favorite shows to choose from on Tivo. It will be sinking into the warmth of a fragrant bath, clean sheets and a soft blanket, gentle snores and peaceful slumber.
All this loveliness.
And it all starts with This Morning.