You are currently browsing the tag archive for the ‘morning’ tag.

This is Clothilde. She lives on my dresser, and is the first thing I see when I awake each morning. She was particularly striking in the sunlight on Sunday morning when I took this shot. She is fabulous. And perhaps best of all, she was a gift from MKL. What other man would surprise me with a big pink chicken? He’s a keeper.

Clothilde the Big Pink Chicken

Lafayette, Colorado.

Quote of the day: “Karma exists, chickens do come home to roost, and as my mother, Phyllis, liked to say, “There is always a day of reckoning.”” — Donald Van de Mark

Daily gratitudes:
Physical therapy
Egg salad
Jack the Golden Retriever
Lunch outside
My angel wing earrings

 

Yes, come inside my brain!  On less than four hours of sleep!  Live the random life!  Yo ho ho!

Morning

* Chicken for breakfast. Whiskey sounds better. But no.

* Thunder Cat, what are you looking at? Whatever it is, it’s circling  you based on how your eyes are tracking it. You are crazy. But then I am the one talking to a cat. At least you’re not answering me.

* If you don’t drive faster, car-in-front-of-me, I will take a chain saw to that stick figure family of yours.

* Why don’t buses have cupholders? Is that too much to ask for?

*  Do not sit next to me on the bus when there are plenty of free pairs of seats. DO NOT. Or I will stab you. With something. Accidentally.  Sort of.

*  The girls are being unruly today. Thank heavens for scarves.

*  I wrote a poem in my head and now I can’t find it.  It was a good poem too.. 😦

*  How on earth can you do counted cross-stitch on a bouncy bus with bad brakes, woman? I might as well just bleed in a pattern on a piece of white fabric and call it a day.

*  I love geese when they are landing – they’re so awkward.

*  I like the color of her hair. That’s almost the color I want my highlights to be. But it’s too creepy to take a picture of the back of her head. And no touching.

*  Tea, stay in your cup!

*  I should be drunk to be this punchy. But then I would be punch-drunk.

*  If I can hear your music through your headphones when I am sitting in front of you, then dude, YOU are not going to be hearing anything in ten years. Maybe iPod and Miracle Ear should do some joint marketing. It’s a long-term strategy.

*  What is it with birds being all creeperesque on the middle of a wire?

*  Joy gave me a phrase last night – “a giant squid of anger”.  Today, I am a killer jellyfish of exhaustion.

*  When  you are very tired, words don’t make a lot of sense. But then again, they don’t have to.  Unless you are writing a proposal response.  Oops.

*  Why are industrial smokestacks so tall?

*  It has taken me almost two years to figure out how to get into that parking garage. That’s pitiful.

*  Should my future pugs be named Karma and Dogma? Or Waffles and Muffins?

*  Just spent the last five minutes wondering if I remembered to put on underwear. Still not sure.

*  You CAN fall asleep while walking.

*  The walls of the elevator are pillowy soft.

*  That moment of abject internal panic when you think you left your phone on the bus – like someone turned off your life support machine.

*  COME TO ME, RED BULL….

Rudolpho

Rudolpho

Photo title: Morning Sky

Taos, New Mexico.

Quote of the day: “Love is that condition in which the happiness of another person is essential to your own.” – Robert A. Heinlein

Daily gratitudes:
Big heads
Chicken piccata
My daughter
Squishy pillows
Another day on the road

[We head back to Colorado today, and I’ll catch you up on yesterday’s adventures tonight or on Tuesday.]

Photo Title: Boots In Waiting

Cheyenne, Wyoming.

Quote of the day: “Don’t worry about losing.  If it is right, it happens.  The main thing is not to hurry.  Nothing good gets away.”  —  John Steinbeck

Today’s guest poet  —  Robert Fuller Murray

A Summer Morning

Never was the sun so bright before,
No matin of the lark so sweet,
No grass so green beneath my feet,
Nor with such dewdrops jewelled o’er.

I stand with thee outside the door,
The air not yet is close with heat,
And far across the yellowing wheat
The waves are breaking on the shore.

A lovely day!  Yet many such,
Each like to each, this month have passed,
And none did so supremely shine.
One thing they lacked: the perfect touch
Of thee – and thou art come at last,
And half this loveliness is thine.

If it takes you four tries to put your underwear on correctly, should you even leave the house?

I’m not a morning person, as I think I’ve hinted at before.  Neither is Kelsea, though interestingly, she used to be.  As a baby, she would wake up early and happy, and I recall saying that I was so thankful for that, because her life would have been shortened significantly had she woken up early and grumpy.  Now, as a teenager, waking her up is harder than waking myself up, and that’s saying something.

Nevertheless, I DO get up (and so does she).  This morning, as I was puttering around the kitchen making breakfast (gasp! yes, it’s true) and doing dishes (gasp gasp!), I found myself singing.  Now, let’s get one thing straight.  I don’t sing.  Nope.  I don’t. 

It’s not that I don’t have a nice singing voice.  It’s actually okay, if I say so myself.  I sing when I’m by myself in the car – along to the radio, or, back in the days when I didn’t have a car radio, as a radio substitute. 

So I know my voice isn’t ghastly.  It’s just that singing around other people makes me feel incredibly self-conscious.  I could take this to the Red Couch and try to analyze why my voice makes me shy (always hated participating in class, you can’t get me drunk enough to do karaoke, etc.) but I always loved dancing on stage.  We’ll just save that for another time.

Back to this morning.  I was singing.  I am not self-conscious about singing around Kelsea.  (And Kelsea likes to sing – she’s been in choir at school for two or three years now.)  I used to sing her lullabies when she was little – she used to ask for them.  I think I am almost unconscious of singing around her.  So, I was doing my own rendition of “The Lumberjack Song”,

 

and then launched into “Dancing Cheek to Cheek”,

when I realized that I was being like my Mother. 

Usually my Mother was alone in the kitchen when she was cooking (lazy, unhelpful slugs that her children were).  And so she would sing.  I discovered, upon reflection this morning, that that’s how I learned and came to love so many old tunes from the ’40s and earlier – because she used to sing them in the kitchen.  It was a lovely, warm feeling to know that somehow I had this part of her embedded in my soul.

Mother had a beautiful singing voice.  She sang lullabies to us, just as I did to Kelsea, and just as E-Bro does to his kids.  I was so homesick after I moved to Colorado, that she made a cassette of herself singing all of my old favorite lullabies.  I have only played it once.  It was entirely too poignant.  But I have it.  (Actually, I really need to rescue it from Pat’s house.) 

Because I never sang around her, she never really knew what my singing voice was like.  But I remember as vividly as if it were yesterday, one Christmas Eve.  I was about 17 and I’d been in tears in the early part of the evening.  I had been working my ass off at the restaurant over Christmas break, and just hadn’t been able to get in the Christmas spirit.  That had never happened to me before, and I just didn’t know what to do.  So I cried on my Mother’s shoulder.  She was her usual sympathetic and encouraging self, and took her treasured little Nativity set and put it up in my bedroom to see if that would help.  It did, a little. 

Our family went, as we always did, to the late Christmas Eve service at Duke Chapel, and while we were there, the spirit came upon me.  

I was singing “Angels We Have Heard On High” (or whatever the name of that carol is) and putting my whole soul into it (easy to do when you’re in a crowd).  Standing next to my Mother, I looked over at her, and she was looking at me with this expression of love in her eyes that was absolutely indescribable.  It brings tears to my own when I think of it now.  And she smiled at me as she was singing, with her beautiful voice, and her smile reached her eyes and made them even more radiant.

On the way to school today (yes, we were late again, ) I told Kelsea that although she didn’t know it now, she would discover that she’s unconsciously listening to me sing and picking up on all these old songs, which are the ones my Mother sang in her kitchen. 

When she’s in college, hanging out with her friends, someday, somewhere, she’ll hear one of those old, seldom-heard tunes, and it will strike a chord of amazement within her, and she’ll remember that her Mother used to sing that song in the mornings in the kitchen.

And the cycle of love will continue.

Mornings are when I want to write, when the juices are flowing like a just-bitten ripe peach. But I must shower, go to work, find some healthy food to last me until I get home tonight at 8:30 – another long day.

Times like this, I picture Hemingway, waking from a poor, whiskey-induced sleep, giving a slight groan, swinging his legs out of a rumpled bed, and sitting on its edge, running his hands through his hair, nails scratching into his beard. He stands, a shifting stretch to move the kinks around, and walks out onto the porch to look at the morning. His brain starts to work, his heart sifts through hope, practical feelings, and despair, that organ itself unsure of its own emotional landing pad for the day. His eyes scan the horizon, and he breathes. He turns and goes back inside. To start his day.

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