Ah! the sacredness of morning's quiet: a retrospective

Greye in the back "square" quiet place--PL, '15

 

Ahh! Sunday—at last. The first day of the week, and the first day I haven’t had to go somewhere since last Monday. “But there’s church,” you might think. No, I went to church yesterday—Saturday—for a worship-service funeral.

 

On my way to retrieve the newspapers this morning, I noticed the zinnias and lantana were already wilted, and the sun wasn’t even out. Nothing to do but get the hose and water them, since there seemed to be no help forthcoming in the weather department. Taking the hose back to the faucet afterwards, I noticed all the south-side mums were either wilted, grass-overtaken, or dead. So I watered the poor things, plus the marvelously-healthy Bermuda. Tomorrow….

 

Back on the front porch, I separated the adverts from both papers, took them inside to the recycling box, then proceeded to read—journal and pen at the ready. Sunday traffic is usually low in the morning; I was expecting a lovely, cool, quiet start to the day.

 

Not gonna happen. The neighbor man, dressed in what looked to be church clothes, drove into his driveway and proceeded to vacuum out the family car. Or at least, he opened the passenger door and turned on something with a motor--a generator, perhaps? At the same time, his dog began its incessant barking.

 

Not in the mood for these obtrusive elements, I gathered all my paraphernalia and betook myself back through the house to the backyard “square,” the place where the picnic table--brought over for the July reunion—still sat. Under the spreading chestnu… hackberry tree it was, so the table was not only the repository of crispy, brown leaves, but also folded lawn chairs and stuff from the last repotting session.

 

A rag lay nearby, so I cleaned the plastic cloth still there--anchored with old, old porcelain light fixtures--stood the lawn chairs against the shed wall, and wiped down the rest of the table and the benches.

 

Though there were more back neighbors, counting those on Amelia Street, it was blessedly quiet.

 

Which way to face for my morning reading? Neither direction was what I’d call a beauty spot: on the south was a near side of the shed, dead yarrow and nearly-dead asters in front, and beyond, the hedge-row. Greenery, at least.

 

Facing north, which I chose, was the neighbor’s newish privacy fence, and the huge hackberry trunk with privet and Yellow Rose of Texas foliage beneath and beyond it. Way off, across--but close to--Couchwood Street, an enormous pile of orangey, red-clay dirt desecrated the once-pristine hayfield. But today, no machines roared and beeped. Ah! As the old hymn goes, “Blessed quietness, Holy quietness…” Except for the birds, for which I’m grateful.

 

Mid-morning, with only coffee for sustenance so far, my tummy grumbled, so I toasted and buttered two slices of raisin-cinnamon bread, grabbed the last cup of mandarin oranges, and a handful of mixed nuts and called that breakfast. Soon, the neighborhood began to stir. Doors opening and closing, voices, dogs barking. It was time to move inside.

 

May we all have quiet mornings this autumn—if we need them.  And we do. Don’t we? I do.