Christmas Eve, morning thoughts

It is Christmas Eve.  As is my habit, I am up before dawn.  The house is dark and quiet. The Christmas tree provides the only light in the room. The smell of the last, late-night batch of cookies is just barely discernible. My wife and children are still sleeping and I am being as quiet as possible so I don't disturb their restful slumber. I hear the low rumble of the furnace working.  The chill from the night air is slowly being overtaken by the warmth that has begun pumping through the floor vents. There is just the slightest hint of dawn approaching over the trees to the east. I am sitting at the kitchen table this morning with a cup of hot coffee attempting to count my blessings.  It is in the peacefulness of these early morning hours I am most grateful.  I consider some of the challenges I face, but when they are listed on the ledger against the things that are wonderful in my life, I realize that am well in the black with large reserves for the tough times should they occur.  It is, perhaps, this gratefulness that that connects one's spirit to God. This moment is both a gift of love to me and a my prayer of thanksgiving.

Through the window I see the diffused light of morning begin to brighten the yard.  It is a chilly overcast day and a few snow flakes are visible blowing around in a light breeze. Wild turkeys are pecking the ground around neighbor's bird feeder.  The world is beginning to awaken.  My youngest daughter, already filled with the excitement of the day bounds into the room.  With tussled hair and sleepy eyes, she give me a hug and moves off to a big comfy chair by the tree, pulls a blanket over her legs and flips open the Kindle that quickly occupies her attention.  Her brother, my eldest, is sleeping on the pullout couch nearby.  He stirs slightly, sensing the new presence in the room, pulls a blanket up over his shoulder and returns to sleep.  I will take just another moment now to slow down and enjoy this new entry in the credit column and then begin my day.

Springtime in December

The weather this morning is unbelievable.  Just three days before Christmas and I am sitting on my front porch, watching the diffused light of the dawn slowing illuminate the yard.  I am sitting comfortably in my favorite Adirondack chair wearing a sweater, jeans and slippers.  It's an overcast, dreary morning but it's unusually warm.  There is a slight breeze that feels cool on my face and a misty, drizzle of rain, almost imperceptible at times but occasionally working itself up into a minor shower, releasing its pent up energy and returning to the gentle sprinkle.

The yard and road beyond are wet, but the porch is dry and  cozy.  The Christmas lights decorating the railing seem strangely out of place this morning.  It feels more like the beginning of spring than the beginning of winter and a vague, unsettled feeling that the decorations need to be put away occurs for a brief moment before the realty of calendar reasserts itself in my mind.   My attention is drawn to a noticeable low pitched drone that could be mistaken for a strong, wind blowing through trees.  When I realize there are no leaves on any of the trees, it becomes apparent that is the sound water rushing across a rocky riverbed. The rain and snow melt of the past few days have turned the lazy, almost silent flow of the nearby stream into a noisy, powerful, torrent. 

The birds are about this morning, probably as confused as the weather.  I see a female cardinal nearly hidden by her natural color among the bare branches of the crab apple tree.  The chickadees are zipping about from branch to branch, seemingly in a hurry but unsure of the reason for their haste or their even their destination.  A titmouse alights on a branch close by. She pauses just a moment, glances left and right then darts off in another direction.  There are many birds calls but only few visible birds; a testament to mother nature’s camouflage.  The whole world has seems to have a brown and beige, earth-tone color that merge with the winter wardrobe of the animals.  Even the lawn has a slight brown tint that mutes the dull green of the dormant, winter grass. 

The deer make their appearance in the next act of the morning.  I only notice them because of their movement, otherwise they are invisible among the leafless branches of bushes and trees.  One is very small.  It is hard to tell from this distance but it appears to still have spots.  I suspect that the larger one is the mother.   They seem unaffected by the rain and are lazily grazing along the bushes and wondering just inside the tree line.

The sun is up and the day is getting away from me now.  As much as I am enjoying this unexpected morning respite on the porch, I need to get moving.  My coffee cup is empty and I hear the girls moving about in the house.  I am now anxious for the springtime to come in earnest.

The Mornings Before Christmas

The house is dark and quiet.  The sun is just beginning to illuminate the room with a soft, morning glow.  I have some quiet Christmas music playing and the colored lights on the tree in the corner of the room are glowing red, green, orange and blue.  The room is a little chilly but there is a small space heater keeping my feet and legs warm and comfortable.  This is Christmas Eve morning.  It is a gift from God to me and I am thankful.

Christmas Concert

As I climb out of my car I take a quick glance at my watch.  It is almost six o'clock.  The concert is supposed to start at six and I have a block or so walk from the parking lot.  The evening is bitter cold and the winter breeze takes my breath away as I step out of my warm car.  I put my head down, turn up the collar of my heavy overcoat and make my way toward the school.  They always start a little late, I tell myself as I stride along the sidewalk, trying not to breath the frigid air too deeply into my lungs.

I look up as I cross the street and approach the front doors. There are a handful of other men in long coats, a few still wearing their ties, coming from the various parking areas.  We are all taking long determined strides toward the school, some occasionally taking a quick glance at a cell phone or a wrist watch.  This annual parade of the late arriving dads is seldom witnessed, but occurs every year right before the Children's Christmas concert and I am a long term participant. In these last few steps to the building, each of us makes the transition in our own way from the cares of work to the cares of family.  For me, the last words of the conversation I was having on the way out the office door echos in my head; "...go be a dad and enjoy the concert!"  It would seem to be such an easy thing.

Another father reaches the front door of the school just before me, marches through and holds it open for me.  In what almost seems to be a choreographed motion, I return the favor to a father behind me and he for the parent behind him.  The lobby is warm and the first few steps into the school provide a welcome relief from the wind and the cold.  I look around for a second to get my bearings.  There are children everywhere.  Ahead of me, through the gymnasium doors, I see a mass of humanity.  It will be a full house.  There is a general, pervasive drone of noise.  Occasionally I can pick out specifics, usually involving a teacher giving directions or answering a question of a young person. The apparently unlimited patience of the teachers is striking and I say a short silent prayer of thanksgiving for these wonderful people.

My phone chirps to announce the receipt of a text message.  I dig through my overcoat and sport coat to get to the inner pocket holding the phone while simultaneously making a mental note to silence this device.  The text message is from my wife with directions to the seat she saved for me on the bleachers.  Now armed with my final destination, I make my way through the lobby, dodging lines of children preparing for their entrance, teachers hovering over the children and occasionally looking up to welcome a parent, mothers pacing with infants in need of a nap and a few of the straggling fathers on cell phones finishing up last minute business.

With the first step though the doors into the gym, I allow myself to fully transition from the outside world into a world filled with faces, colors, lights, warmth, and something else too.  It might be Christmas spirit, it might be the strong sense of a community coming together to celebrate, it might be the invisible sea of excitement and anticipation of all of the young people and their families that has filled the building.  I can't exactly put my finger on, but as I cross the threshold I feel as if someone has lifted a heavy burden from me, wrapped a warm blanket over my shoulders, handed me a warm cup of hot coco and pointed to a large chair by the fire.  This feeling lasts just a moment, but I am aware that I've managed leave my work worries outside.

Barb waves to me from high in the bleachers and I pick my way through the other parents, up the bleacher seats as if I was scaling a mountain looking for best path among the rocks. As I settle into the seat next to Barb and struggle out of my overcoat, I look over the assemblage of parents, siblings and relatives filling the chairs on the gym floor and the bleachers on the other side of the gym.  I notice that the substantial number of people standing in the back.  It is definitely a full house.

The risers on the stage at the end of the gym are full of children festively dressed in reds and greens, skirts and ties. Their ranks flow down to another set of risers in front on the stage.  From the tableau you wouldn't think our Catholic schools are having any enrollment challenges.  It is the biggest group I've seen in the years I've had children in the system.  Barb leans over and points out our youngest daughter on the stage and I am struck with how pretty she looks in her red and black Christmas dress.  I think to myself, "when did she get so big?"  Teachers are still moving about getting the last of the children into position.  The lights go dim and the principle welcomes everyone.

The music begins.  This student body belts out a Gloria to begin the concert.  It is amazing.  They fill the space with their voices and it resonates in my heart.  They seem to channel all of the pent up excitement and nervous energy of the day into the music.  I take a deep breadth and relax a just a bit more, banishing the last bits of the work day from my consciousness, at least for the next hour or so.  It is time to sit back, be a dad and enjoy the concert.

White Friday

It's early Friday morning, the day after Thanksgiving.  I stand here with a warm cup of coffee in my hand, looking out my kitchen window.  The backyard is covered in white. The thin, uniform coating of freshly fallen snow, has yet to be disturbed by deer, turkey or the other animals that frequent my yard.  White flakes of snow continue to fall from some unseen source in the sky, but the box must be nearly empty.  There are just occasional crumbs falling now, here and there, lazily drifting down and blending seamlessly into the white blanket that accumulated over night.  There is a sense of gazing into a large snow-globe that is settling down after a good shake.  

Every horizontal surface is white, the lawn, the deck and its wooden railings, the picnic table and its benches. The wind seems calm allowing even the smallest surfaces like the thin branches of the birch tree and the wooden top of the wind chimes to retained their tiny coating of snow this morning. Only the vertical surfaces of the brown tree trunks, the walls of neighbor's red shed and the greenish-grey 4x4 posts holding up the play house are left showing their contrasting earth tone colors.

The sky is mostly cloudy but it allows for an occasional, pleasant glimpse of a clear and iridescent  blue behind the white clouds.  The sun has just risen above the tree covered hills to the east.  The clouds have cleared from that area as if chased westward by the coming of the day. The new day's bright light reflects of all the white surfaces and the yard almost glows.  It hardly makes any sense to have so much light and so little heat.  I stand quietly sipping my coffee, considering the benefits of my de facto decision to avoid the retail stores this morning and enjoy this pleasant morning sunrise.

Windy night wishes

A cold wind is howling outside.  I lay here in the deep darkness of the early morning, awake and listening.  The wind ebbs and flows like waves on the ocean shore. The rain makes a soft drum beat on the roof and occasionally clatters against the window near my head. The house creaks and groans when a strong wind blows and almost seems to be leaning into it to keep its footing.  Wrapped in warm blankets, my head on a soft pillow, I am content to be comfortable, dry, and safe from the weather.

In an effort to appreciate this moment, I close my eyes and imagine being outside.  Walking along the dark road, would be cold,  and I would just barely be hiding my face from the raw edge of the early winter wind. Chilled to the bone by wind and rain I would trudge along, tired and alone.  My feet are wet and the rain is beating upon my shoulders, occasionally trickling down my neck and sending chills through my body. Desperate and with no prospects for relief, I stop and sit under a large tree to rest.  I close my eyes and in a barely audible whisper, wish that I could be somewhere warm and dry.

When I open my eyes I am in my bed, looking into the early morning darkness again, comfortable and cozy.  With my wife cuddled beside me quietly breathing, I am content, happy and now a little sleepy.  As drowsiness begins to take a firm hold, random images and disconnected thoughts prance through my mind. I fade off into a restful slumber thinking how grand it is to have the power to make wishes come true.

My Guitar

The case sits unopened in front of me.  The textured, chocolate brown, faux-leather material covers every surface giving the case a finished, professional look. The symmetric curves along either side of the case give it a certain feminine, graceful, hourglass appearance.  That's appropriate because the instrument inside has a decidedly feminine name, a name that no one really knows and one that I'm reluctant to share. Keeping her name to myself is part of what makes my relationship with this particular instrument special and intimate.  A time will come when I will introduce her to others, but not now, probably not very soon.

There are pages of sheet music on the table, patiently waiting to guide me through the sequence of finger positions, and tempos that will release warm tones filled with new musical energy into the world. To the uninitiated, the music looks like  a complex collection of lines, and dots, letters, symbols and hash tags.  To those who know the secrets, it is a treasure map that holds the directions to a calm, relaxing place. A place where the treasure is inner peace and and a deep and of happiness and contentment.

There are four brass latches on the case.  They are mounted at measured intervals around the front side and are hanging open and relaxed, temporarily relieved of their duty to keep the lid and the contents of this case secure. I reach out to the case with a certain level of expectation, much like what I feel when I smell freshly brewed warm coffee on a cool fall morning.  I know I'm going to enjoy what's coming.

As I lift open the lid, the sight of the rich brown spruce and maple wood surrounded by the dark red, plush padding pleases my eye.  The contrasting colors of the beige top, dark brown, slightly maroon neck and sides, and white trim give the instrument an elegant appearance worthy of a fine piece of art.  There is something special about a beautiful instrument that foreshadows the wonderful sound it is capable of producing in the right hands.  

The strings running the length of the guitar are a bright copper color but I notice they are showing early signs of tarnish and wear.  They will need replacing soon.  This causes the same paternal urge to remedy the situation that one gets when your child has a dirty face and needs to have it cleaned up, but not until after playtime has ended.

There is a pleasant, slightly musky smell of rosewood and spruce that float up out of the case increasing my excitement and anticipation.  I carefully lift the guitar out of the case and feel the smoothness of the neck in my left hand as I set the body securely in my lap and wrap my arm around the top, a motion that reminds me of settling a small child in my lap for a bedtime story.  The embrace is as natural and comfortable as a hug from a dear friend.

With my right-hand thumb, I gently pluck each string and am rewarded with a soft tone assigned to each. The calloused fingertips of my left hand push down on the strings along the neck changing their tones in quick succession as I work through a memorized scale.  I'm ready to start to play.  I look over at the music and consider where to begin this journey.  The journey will not be very long today but along the way I plan to lose stress, care, and on a really good day, myself.

Darkness and Light

When I arrived at the gym it was cold and dark.  The parking lot was blanketed by the gloomy silence of the early, predawn morning. The exact time was impossible to estimate even if I cared to know.  A few scattered light posts illuminated random areas of the parking lot with a dim yellow glow.  Aside from the methodical activity of a truck driver across the parking lot preparing for an early start, everything was silent and sleepy. As I looked over at my gym bag in the passenger seat the drudgery of my morning routine weighed heavily on my mind.  Nonetheless, I dragged myself into the building to run a few miles on the treadmill.

Now, an hour later, I having finished my morning ritual and I'm stepping out of the gym into the bright sunlight of a beautiful crisp morning.  While I was busy with my workout, the sun rose across the horizon and gave birth to a beautiful, bright new day.  My body is warm with the afterglow of a solid workout and a hot shower.  My cardiovascular engine continues radiating heat into the atmosphere as it slowly throttles back to a normal activity level .  The air is crisp and I have a sense that it is chilly but I don’t feel the coolness.  The familiar surroundings of the parking lot have transformed in the span of an hour.  Color and shape are all visible now in the natural light and I have an intense, endorphin induced excitement at the potential the day holds .  The sky is bright and clear.  My body attracts the sunshine like a magnet and I feel plugged in as I absorb the energy.  My step is light and nimble as I walk further into the parking lot exposing myself to even more of the sun's warm rays.  I fill my lungs with this freshness of this brand new day.  This clean, cool air is a delight after an hour in the stuffy, sweaty, atmosphere that lingers in the gym and locker room.  There is a pleasant tingle in my lungs as I exhale.  It triggers a wave of euphoria that envelops my entire soul and causes a reflexive smile that may be the only external hint of my appreciation of this moment.

I am aware that I am experiencing part runner’s high combined with a simple awe at the beauty of a this bright day. My senses are sharp and I perceive details more clearly. The sky is a vibrant blue and is tastefully accented with an occasional pure white cloud.  A light frost has formed white, geometric patterns on the red metal of my car.  I make a deliberate effort to slow down and allow myself a moment to be impressed with this easily overlooked, fleeting work of delicate art.  One more deep breath elicits another smile that I share with a passing athlete at the front end of his workout.

Pausing for one last time for a moment, I consider the contrast between my feelings now and how I felt at the front of my workout.  This will be a morning I recall when I need a reminder that after the darkness there is always a dawn.

Homeward bound

It is early in the morning, dark and chilly.  As drive up to the concrete labyrinth that houses the rental cars, I think about my family on the other side of the country and how their day is well underway. I'm anxious to get home but there is nothing I can do to move the process along more quickly.  I am aware that at the entrance to this parking garage I will be swallowed by the incomprehensible machinery of the transportation system.  I will be transformed from an individual into the product.  It is something I have learned to tolerate because of the necessity to travel.  The excitement I used to feel at this moment is just a pleasant, distant memory.  After taking a couple of deep breaths I manage to reduce my stress level slightly and I pull into the structure.

I navigate through the turns and ramps and finally pull into the rental car return area designated by bright yellow letters as belonging to HERTZ.  One of the attendants, bundled against the chilly morning, begins waving at me from the far end of the area.  He is directing me into a particular parking lane.  Maybe this guy used to work on the ground crew before the rental car company.  His arms over his head beckon me forward as if he was marshaling an airplane into a gate rather than the Ford Explorer into a parking space. I imagine him holding orange flashlights and that I am a pilot of an airliner arriving home after a long trip.  As soon as I put the car into park the fantasy ends and he moves around behind me to marshal the next vehicle into place.  I suppose he is happy to be moving around and staying warm.  Realizing that my day is just beginning, I wonder briefly if he is at the start or end of his shift.

I step out of the car, the customary routine begins.  A young lady wearing a headscarf and a heavy winter jacket, scans a barcode on the windshield. She consults the screen on her device and without making any eye-contact asks “How was the car Mr….  Limmer?”.  Her voice is light, pleasant and carries an easily detectable middle-eastern accent.  I say "fine".  I have gotten over correcting the pronunciation of my name or providing any real detail about the vehicle's performance.  The reality is that neither of us really cares to have a conversation at this hour and this is simply part of the ritual. 

As she walks around the vehicle checking for serious damage she asks “Did you buy gas?” and I respond in the affirmative.  She reminds me to “…please double check for all your belongings”.   The handheld device vibrates and makes a subtle grinding sound before spitting out the receipt which she tears off and hands to me.  In an insincere, tired voice that I’m sure has repeated the phrase a hundred times since the beginning of what has probably been a long, overnight shift she says “Thank you for renting from Hertz.”  The entire transaction is now complete and my attendant moves on to the next vehicle in line.  I make my way through the parking garage, up the maze of escalators and to the shuttle bus.  I'm on my way home.

Saturday Morning Soccer

October 19th, 2013

It's Saturday morning at the soccer fields. I'm sitting in my camp chair watching my youngest daughter play a form of soccer that is familiar to most parents of 9 year-olds.  Never having played the game myself, the strategy and rules continue to be a mystery to me and this is definitely not the place to become enlightened. That's okay though because I think the mystery is shared by many of the players, a few of the coaches and most of the parents.  Even so, it truly lifts my spirit just to watch the youthful activity, the high levels of energy being released to the atmosphere through constant motion.  I enjoy watching the little faces that display focus and fierce determination, but in a split second light up with smiles and a giggles at some strange spin of the ball or an unexpected deflection off a teammate.

I admit, when my daughter is resting on the sidelines the game holds less interest for me so I sit back, enjoy my coffee gaze at the beautiful open space that has been converted this morning into a center of athletic competition.  The sky is a brilliant blue and it is a sunny morning with only a few passing puffy clouds.  The trees surrounding the park are displaying leaves in various shades of autumn green, yellow and brown. The air is chilly when the sun is momentarily hidden by a cloud but we are treated to a warm hug when the shadow passes and the sunlight returns. The grass is still a little moist from morning dew.  My sneakers are just slightly damp from the long walk across the park to the sidelines of this furthest field. The large square of green lawn is marked off with a grid of white lines creating the boundaries of four soccer fields.  The large white soccer goals are lined up and evenly spaced along either end of the fields giving an almost military precision to the area.   Their white posts, crossbeam and net stand in stark contrast with to the earth tone colors surrounding them. The goals look impossibly large in comparison to the children defending them.

There are four games being played simultaneously on this bright, cool, comfortable morning. The vibrant orange, blue, red and green  t-shirts are in constant and apparently random motion, creating a simply joyous picture that combines color, sound and motion in a way that can only be perceived by all of the senses working together.  I take out my notebook and briefly consider trying to capture the tableau but I can't quite find words to record the dynamics of the motion.  It is something that if I were a composer I might be able to express with a mix of instruments regularly changing tempo and timbre and tone.  I decide just to set my notebook aside and enjoy this symphony of color in energy that ebbs and flows as the players collect into small groups then quickly dispersing before collecting again in another area.

There is a constant discourse filling the air with rhetorical questions, instructions, and motivation from coaches, punctuated by random occurrences of short referee whistles.  The coaches seem particularly skilled both directing the activity on the fields, and at keeping the energy on the sidelines at a slow simmer until they allow it to boils over onto the field as players are substituted. The parents are participating vicariously from the sidelines, shouting encouragement by name to the children they know and by color to those they don't. Every so often a gruff, unintelligible curse escapes from under the breath of a frustrated dad, but frustration quickly passes and the shouts of encouragement resume.

In sequence, the final whistles blow on each field.  The colors all mix and stir together as the teams shake hands and congratulate one another.  Chairs and blankets are packed up, hugs and praise are heaped on even the least skilled of the players.  The entire picture moves slowly toward the parking lot and the beginning of the rest of the day.

Front Porch - Sunday Morning Oct 13

It is unusually quiet on my front porch this morning. The sky is overcast and there is a damp chill in the air. Every so often I hear the purposeful squawk or tweet of a bird. There are no pleasant songs or complicated whistles. The sounds I hear are all very business-like this morning. The cooler weather seems to have brought a serious focus to nature as the preparations for the coming of winter go into full swing.

Over the past couple of weeks, my favorite red maple tree across the way has lost its grand shape and color. It looks thin, tattered and tired, like an old, thin workman in worn out clothes, ripped and threadbare. The deep rust color of the remaining leaves is hardly discernible from the brown leaves scattered around its base.

As I sit here taking in the morning scene, a young deer appears from the corner of the house and saunters into a small hutch of bushes in the middle of the yard. She is nearly hidden among the muted color of the remaining leaves and brown branches of the bush.  Though she is almost invisible to me, I notice that she is still under the watchful eye of her mother who stands nearby, sensing the air and scanning the yard for danger. What wonderfully graceful creatures the deer are and the scene makes me happy. Another sibling appears from around the corner of the house and the three begin carelessly nibbling at the remaining leaves on bushes. I'm conflicted whether to chase them away to protect the bush or continue to observe, unnoticed, unheeded. They are so close I could almost reach out and touch the smallest one. The feeling is both exciting and a little frightening. I don’t think I have ever been this close to a wild deer before.  I decide to watch and enjoy.

The sleek animals all have smooth light brown coats but I can see how they differ ever so slightly in shade and texture. Their ears are outlined in black and stand up like radar dishes swiveling to and fro in random patterns even as their attention moves from the nibbling the bush to grazing through the grass. The mother doe has an itch and by lowering her neck in what seems to be an impossible curve and raising her hind leg, she gets her hoof to just the right spot behind her ear.  The whole maneuver is accomplished while keeping her eyes forward and maintaining a vigilant watch over her children.

 The innocence of the young deer is remarkable. I sit quietly as one of the fawns moves toward me, lazily nosing around in the grass. She has big round brown eyes which occasionally glance up at me but pay no heed. Her eyes speak of happiness, curiosity, and contentment at the same time. I notice a slightly darken line of color along the spine of her back, almost like a subtle racing stripe that would camouflage her as a branch if she was hiding in the woods. She has found something interesting in the grass and has turned her complete attention to it. Her ears are laid back and head is down. Good thing mom is nearby.

I hear a snort from the mother doe. I think she might be chastising this little fawn for her lack of attention. Or maybe it was a reminder that the morning is getting on and safer pastures are in the woods. Mom and sister begin to wonder toward the wood but this fawn refuses to be rushed.  After another moment of grazing, she stands up tall and listens. I hear nothing but I can see that her senses are now on high alert. She lowers her head for a couple more nibbles at the grass but her ears are at attention.  Her head snaps back upright now.  She is listening intensely, and scanning the yard and road. I can just now make out the sound of a car coming down the hill. I get nervous for the fawn. Will she get spooked and bolt into the road and perhaps to her doom? I can hear the car clearly now and it is the focus of the fawn’s attention as well. Traveling much too fast down the hill, as is often the case, a potential disaster awaits the car, driver and fawn if she breaks for the road rather than woods.

 I notice that I am holding my breath with expectation. It is like watching a full-count pitch; in a moment something is going to change. The fawn tenses. She is wound tight like a spring. I can see the muscles in her hind quarter tense and twitch with the adrenaline. She glances around deciding on the nearest path to safety. The car continues to approach fast. On this road, there are ditches on either side of the rode with no place to maneuver.

Then, in a split second, the fawn launches herself into motion, all legs, fur and speed, a blur to my eye. She's smart though. Maybe she could see her family or maybe she had been attentive to their direction, in any case her escape route is away from the the road and toward the woods behind the house. In the blink of an eye she is gone and the car speeds by my porch.  The driver, oblivious to the danger that has passed, is probably caught up in his own morning thoughts.

I let out a long sigh and settle back into my chair. The quiet of the morning has returned.  I feel the chill in the air more intensely now and am less comfortable. I hear my girls milling about in the house, giggles and laughter replacing the quiet on the porch. It is time for a cup of coffee, and to start my day in earnest.

Front Porch 8/25

It is Sunday morning and I'm sitting on my new front porch reading today's news. The quiet is regularly punctuated with bird calls of every kind. The sun is warming away the slight chill in the air. Two deer are quietly grazing next to me, occasionally giving a nervous glance toward the excited cawing of flock of crows but, with a flick of their tail deciding there is no danger. This is my happy place.

Front Porch 9/7

It's a bright, clear morning. The sun is just coming around the corner of the house and warming the back of my neck. The air has a crispness about it that both reminds me of vacations in Antigo and foretells the coming of fall (and football season). The neighbor's chickens have found their way across the road and are wandering around as they explore my front yard. The birds a quiet this morning except for an occasional crow or chirp of a cardinal. It is a good morning to reconnect and recharge.

Front Porch 9/8

Very different morning today. The air is heavy with moisture, not quite oppressive but draping everything with a heavy dew and leaving a fine mist in the air. As a small breeze rises I feel a chill that reminds me it is a September morning and summer is waining. But when it is gone, it could be any nice summer morning after a evening rain. There are some unusual bird calls this morning. Perhaps the some have just stopped by for a rest on their way to warmer climates. A lone wood pecker bangs against a tree and sounds like a metronome set to an absurd tempo within the concert of birds. It is time to head to church and give thanks for being able to be in this place...

Front Porch 9/20

Sitting on my front porch with a cold beer. It's a cool evening but not uncomfortable (though Barb has a light jacket on). The darkness is relaxing after a long busy week. The occasional strong breezes seem to hint that rain may be on the way. I'm just sitting, sipping and thinking about the coming fall while the crickets chirp out a tribute to the last days of summer. ...my happy place at night. 

Porch notes October 5th

It is warm and muggy on my front porch this morning. There is no breeze and I can feel the moisture hanging in the air around me.  The smell of earth and leaves is just detectable and is a reminder to me that the short autumn season is in mid-stride. The sky is overcast. In the quiet of the morning, the soft, diffused sunlight reflects in the morning dew and creates a calm, restful space for the day to begin. The peacefulness begins to trickle through me, as I settle into my chair and start the slow process of recharging my spirit after a long week.

The rain last night has left everything damp and musty. But unlike a summer morning, the heavy, damp air is void of annoying bugs that would zip around my eyes and ears looking for their morning meal. This morning I can sit comfortably, enjoying my coffee and the beautiful, autumn scene before me.

The trees continue their valiant attempt to retain their dignity though some have lost the battle. The weaker trees stand naked and resigned to the coming of winter while the oak and birch trees struggle on to keep their colorful fall wardrobe intact. As I look out across my yard, I notice one particular tree.  It stands on a small knoll, just across the narrow blacktop road.  As best I can tell from this distance, it is a tall, proud maple.  There is an almost perfect circle of fallen leaves littering the ground around its trunk.. The maple holds tight to the leaves that continue to give it shape and fullness but this is in sharp contrast to the bare trees around it. The muted rust color of its remaining leaves seems to impart a sadness that the season is coming to an end and its energy to resist is waning.

 A blue jay alights on my porch railing just a few feet away. Seeing him up close reminds me of their beauty but then he squawks I remember that they are still the loud, obnoxious bullies in the yard. As suddenly as it appears it disappears again into the sky.

 Squirrels are busy running here and there, along a power line, up a tree trunk, down a telephone pole. For all their activity they don't seem to be accomplishing anything. I know that feeling.

It is time for me to tear myself away from this site and get busy with my own chores. I'll take one more moment though, just one more deep breath of the morning air, just one more moment to enjoy the yellow-green leaves of the birch tree and to watch the drops of water linger on the tips of the crab apple tree branches... But now the moment has passed, truly enjoyed as all moments are meant to be.

Some random thoughts 2013 09 28

It’s been a quiet evening.  The day was beautiful.  I’m grateful for the sunshine and the pleasant memory it has left behind.  So this evening I’m sitting at my desk, listening to Pandora and counting my blessings.  The tallying has left me feeling old, but in a good way.  Maybe not even so much feeling old as grateful for the patchwork quilt of experiences woven together that forms memory for me.  I can now appreciate these memories anew as I watch my children experience the world that surrounds them.  

My son called a little while ago to share his excitement with his new responsibilities at work.  I love these glimpses he gives me into the important things in his world.  As he describes the triumphs and terrors that give color and texture to  those first few years of a new career,  I hear echoes of my early years at IBM.  Has it really been 30 years?  It doesn’t seem that long until I start to think of how much I’ve learned since then, most importantly about how little I really know.

They announced class rankings yesterday for my daughter’s class of 2014.  She was so excited to discover she is in the top 10.  It was wonderful to share the excitement of that accomplishment.  Was it really so long ago that I was walking the halls at Kimball high, worrying about college, grades and so naïve and oblivious to my ignorance of life; with no idea of the challenges, joys and surprises that awaited me? I can only shake my head and maybe allow myself a slight smirk as I rekindle the memories of those days. 

The years have included so many joys, so many wonderful experiences, so many friends, and yet have been lightly seasoned with a mix of setbacks, mistakes, life lessons and probably more than a couple of places where apologies are past due. But, like the sunshine from today, an overall pleasant memory of warmth and bright color is left behind.  I think I will wrap myself in it and be content for the evening.

Deep Breadth

Mitch is nearing the end of his morning routine. The routine has a predicable schedule, up at 5, gym by 6, shower by 7 and on to the office.  Once at his desk he'll plug into the world, but for the moment, he goes through the motions without initiating any more voluntary thought than someone might give to his own heartbeat. It is a routine that after countless repetitions provides comfort in its familiarity like a favorite flannel shirt but it has also dulled his attention to detail.  On these mornings, his mind is like a butter knife whose blade is perhaps useful but hardly dangerous.

Arriving at the office this morning, he parks his car in its regular place.  Taking a last swig of lukewarm coffee Mitch opens his door and sighs at the slightly annoying but insistent ping warning him that his headlights are still on.  They were hardly needed in the early morning twilight but he had taken no notice.  After switching off the lights, Mitch retrieves his faithful briefcase from the backseat.  The heavy cloth bag has been a constant companion for many years and has traveled untold miles. With its handles worn and seams fraying it looks almost as tired as Mitch feels this morning.  He starts toward the building; on complete autopilot, repeating this last part of his regular morning ritual one more time.

After just a few steps, though, he hesitates.  For some curious reason the fog of complacency that generally surrounds Mitch for this short walk from car to desk dissipates.  He feels an unusual sense of clarity as he is drawn deeply into the moment.  He has no perception of the cause.  Maybe it was the caress of the fresh, fall, air on his face or maybe the subtle sound of the leaves rustling in the nearby trees.  Perhaps it could have been the sweet smell of the autumn morning on the slight breeze. In any case, he gives the reason no more than a passing consideration.  He realizes that this is a pleasant, grace filled moment and he is content to allow it to lift his spirit. He is tuned into the surroundings and he allows his attention to be completely given over to the new awareness.  He can almost feel his senses wake up, stretch and yawn as they begin processing the world around him.  The parking lot is quiet and nearly empty.  The expanse of the rich black surface is dotted with small circles of oil between long white lines in a Morse code of dashes and dots. The sun is just beginning to color the clouds on the horizon a perfect complement of pale pink and light grey.  The phrase "the dawn breaks" comes to mind and he discards it as too negative for the what he is experiencing.  Here, at this moment,  the dawn blooms and his senses drink in the beauty of the sunrise.

After a few more steps, there is another hesitation. Mitch takes a deep breath, filling his lungs with the cool, crisp morning air. He can feel it swell his chest and seep into his being.  He relaxes shoulders, his brow, his mind.  A few more steps and Mitch steals one more deep breath thinking how wonderful it would be if he could hold it in for the entire day.  Reluctantly he begins a slow and deliberate exhale as he captures a last glance at the sky, now bright with color.  With renewed purpose, he moves on toward the office with a profound sense of gratitude for the gift of this simple moment that could have been so easily overlooked.