It’s more of a pause. A breath in and out. A moment to recharge.
The
window
is at its best in early morning, when the sun is not quite up and the
Portland sky has not yet decided what kind of day it will be. Sunny?
Cloudy?
Stormy? A little of each probably, but for this moment, it's still an
unknown. The tall arborvitae that edge our yard block out the neighbors
house in
the sparse light, but a break between our trees and theirs allow a wedge
of
morning sky. Streaky clouds tumble toward the mountain, which you cannot
see
from our window but which my inner compass knows is just off to the
right of
our view. Little wisps of pink and purple drop through as the sun rises
and our
neighbor’s twinkle lights, always on, become fainter as the
daylight expands
to outshines them. It happens so fast, in the space of the few minutes
that it
takes me to begin the day.
Down the stairs to put the kettle on, up again for a sweater
to fight off the chill of a house not yet awake.
Down to make the coffee, up again to get dressed.
Down to wake the almost-teen, up to wake his sister.
Down to start breakfast and backpack checks and bus runs.
From dark to light, night to day, punctuated by the trips up
and down the stairs that it takes to get everyone up and fed and out the door
for the day.
