I wish I had spent the yesterday morning instead sipping coffee in my old house’s kitchen, looking out into a forest harboring paths and overlooks and glancing down upon a cow pasture with cows whose morning millings were akin to my own. I wish that as I read the poems from the New Yorker—in that very kitchen—and looked out upon this field or this forest that I could hear again the sufferings of a house in the morning: the creak of old boards whose noise come without even the touch of bare feet; the rising sounds of roommates who slowly come to reckoning with the mornings rays of sunshine and bird songs; the coffee maker whose voice-clearing morning routine is as recognizable to my ears as the dark, rich smell is to my nose.
Instead I woke to the love of my life staring at me—my roommates dog Toby who adores me whatever my flaws and appreciates the simple things in life: my unlocking of the door so he may perform his morning routine, and making sure he has food in his bowl before I leave the house in the morning. He looked at me as if begging me to get up and play for a while. A brilliant idea on my morning off.
It felt that yesterday, my day of sloth had been a wonderful wind down towards the beginnings of Lent and the dreariness that often comes with this particular liturgical season for me. It is funny how we each prepare for the last push of winter: we look to a rodent for advice; stuff ourselves with paczis, and allow for one last dip into our vices; and those of us who consider ourselves Christians await the crucifixion of Christ and his Ascension into Heaven, while others of us simply watch for the coming of an earlier sun and a moon more willing to stay for shorter periods of time and warmer weather. And this warm weather we have had as of late serves to do little more than confuse the senses--last night I had just drifted off to sleep when I awoke again to thunder claps and yard lightening lightning.
All that said I am hopefully awaiting spring, or at least March. February is dreadfully the seemingly longest month of the year…and it has started. While I hate the month of February, I love Dar Williams' February. "And I said what's a crocus?" Here's to hoping...