July 26, 2011

The Intruder

This morning, I had my first cup of coffee in my garden chair as I read to the middle of MEMORIES OF RUNNING, by Bruce McLarty. I was up, oh so very early, and brewed the cup and took to the seat at first light. I traveled with Smithy to New York and listened to the old artist lady describing Art and Light and repeating, "That's Omega there. That's God's work," as she wandered off. I was engrossed in good writing, the good use of good words, and each time I'd reach for a big swig, I'd notice pieces of lovely in my garden.

The easing of the paint along the arm of my chair.

My pal's resting position.

The slight turning of the rose petal.

 The shifting light from the candle in the blue-gray of morning.

And then: the intruder.

The sun.

I don't think I've ever been unhappy with the sun peeking over the rooftop. But there it was with all it's light and warmth, beckoning for the day to start in earnest. But it had started, in the perfect way, with the chair and the book and the dog and the coffee and the time. There it was. Time.

I recognize I'm pushed to consider how I will spend my time this day. It look's like its time to fill my list with things (like working) that must be done. But this morning, in the early moments, I felt the fullness of what my soul desires: transporting words, the stillness of time, the coolness of morning, the beauty of Creation right in my yard, the work of a little black spider at his web within arms length and, without working to connect to God in scripture or text, just being in the midst of all He's granted, I am filled.

I'm even accepting the trickling light the intruder supplies as it dancing across my table.

Morning is changeable, I realize. The cool, the warmth, now the breeze. The waking birds are coming to peruse and a barking dog around the block is joining.

It must be time for a second cup.

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