My room is bathed with sunlight and it wakes me up before my alarm has a chance to go off. I listen to a few enlightening podcasts on NPR.org as I get dressed. My hair is perfect.
I walk into the back balcony, lined with my father's orchids. His 3rd child. I check to see if the roses have bloomed yet. Little buds still, like presents.
On my way out the door, my father lovingly hands me my breakfast (I am a grown adult, but my father insists on cooking me breakfast and I am delighted at this little perk) and my little brother so kindly left me a tall ice tea in the fridge.
There is no traffic going into to work and all the songs I play in my car, no matter how many times I've played them before, sounds like I am listening to them for the first time. I find the perfect parking spot, not too far from the elevator.
I arrive before everyone else in the office and get to enjoy the silence for a moment and inhale deeply, before the chaos of the day ensues like it does every day.
These are rare days, but when they occur, I savor each second.
Summer has a way of getting you to fall in love with it each and every year, and then cruelly disappearing behind fall foliage and cold white blanket of winter.
I want to know about your perfect morning.
1 comment:
My perfect morning. Alarm goes off at 5:00, even though I won't finally throw back the comforter and step out of my white downy nest until at least 6:15. The waking hour, I call it, as I attempt to ponder the day and give thanks and regain consciousness. I tune in to whatever song my 15 year old radio alarm is playing; I play a little game wherein I imagine that whatever song is playing when I wake up has some significant meaning/message for my life. This morning - I'm not your blue sky anymore by someone named Emily. The birds are already chatting voraciously and I take a moment to be grateful for my small town existence, that I get to awaken to this chatter everyday. I feel light and thin as I glide down the stairs, running my hand along the worn wooden railing, once again wondering about who else's hand has run the same course, probably quite a few in this 105 year old house. Of course, perfect hair, a flowy skirt and trim top. And the children. One, two, three, they are up and bathed and pretty and freckle-faced. Fruit Loops, Sponge Bob and we're all off. Kisses, goodbyes, and don't forget your bookbag. Then for my 25 mile commute to school. Playing my music as loud as I want or not at all. Diet Mt. Dew and baggie of cereal. No stoplights, no traffic, just miles of brown and green hills - the soil like carpet, being prepared for planting. And the blues and whites of the sky. Raising a hand in greeting to the same vehicles I meet each day. Finally, to school. On time, even! Did I mention I felt light and thin? Perfect.
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