Sunday Morning

I am waking up slowly. The quiet around me this Sunday is not hushed or forced, nor is it still or thick as silence can be. Quiet is not silence at all. It is the sound of my husband's sleep breathing a few feet away. It is one of my dogs, sensing my wakefulness, coming up for a nudge and a cuddle. It is the burbling coffee maker in the kitchen softly dripping bean juice into the pot. The click of thoughts onto the screen.

Monday and all through the week I wake up with difficulty, groggy and tired, wishing the night had more hours. Today I am awake early without an alarm to savour quiet time. I wonder why 7:00 looks so different on a weekday (dread, horror!) than on a weekend (hours to spend with just me, before the rest of the world intrudes). This is my morning, and the first words I have uttered have been through my fingers onto this page. My mouth is for smiling and sipping coffee and being closed until later.

Later i am sure I'll have plenty to say. My mouth is usually full of words, jokes, sometimes a little unsolicited advice for my friends (I'm working on that). Talking is a joy, but I am learning how true that is of writing too. If there is anything I get to learn from blogging I'd like it to be the discipline of writing almost every day. This means that you, dear readers, may not always get the best of me but I undertake to give you something each time.

Apropos of writing and stuff I visited Granny Lynn yesterday. You know, the lady my cat is probably going to love more than me. This woman, an English teacher to her bones, has taught me a lot about language and is probably one of the reasons I am doing this. At 81 years old Lynn writes creatively and when she talks, weaves the language into totally original patterns. She remarked yesterday that she is the matriarch, being the most senior member of the family. Matriarch, she said, was not her style. I agree that Lynn is not your typical prim old biddy. However, matriarch has a regal connotation and here is where I see the connection. Granny Lynn is a regent of language, a lifelong advocate of literacy (hell, she tried to get me to read before I was even walking), and the elder woman storyteller who is teaching generations not only how to use, but how to love language. I can't wait for my baby's turn to be read to and introduced to the beauty of words by my Granny.

Now my cat is stalking around on the bed and one of the dogs is giving me insistent wet-nosed nudges (the other dog is a professional sleeper). Quiet writing time is over and pet feeding, box packing, and planning for the move must begin.

Sigh. Here I go.