The first hour

The first bird tweets at 6:18. His song is accompanied by the hum of planes leaving Cointrin for the world.

Years into alleged retirement, I still luxuriate in not having to rush out of bed in the morning. I usually spend an hour deliberately not getting up.

An hour is an elastic thing. If one is waiting for a loved one, not seen for too-long, each minute moves so slowly that is necessary to check a watch to make sure it hasn’t stopped. If that same loved one is parting for an extended time, the same hour passes at speeds that would put Formula 1 to shame. In the morning the hour passes in real time.

The room is cool from the open window. The shutters are up, the drapes open so I can watch the arrival of the day. If it would be sunny, the pattern of the lace would be broadcast on the armoire.

This hour is my time to read, think and/or doze.

The bed is warm, the air is cool gentling me from the relaxation of sleep into the activities of the day.

I plan:

• What will I wear?
• Does my hair need washing?
• Shower and breakfast or breakfast and shower?
• Oatmeal for breakfast and/or an egg?
• Lunch, cook or go out?
• If I go out, where?
• What projects? Admin, newsletter, lunch, novel?
• Who will I visit with?
• Where will I walk if I walk--the lake, the hills? 
• What will I read?
• Will I watch TV and if so what? 

At 6:41 the first crow has announced he is up and ready to start his day. I can see him in a branch that still is not in full leaf.

In my head I work on the novel. Trudi has to react to Annie’s conversation about the letter she wrote to her lover, Trudi’s lover, not Annie’s. Unlike some writers I don’t know how my book will end until it ends. Sometimes I’m surprised.

I hear J moving about in the next room. I continue reading but dozing time is over.

7:18 What sounds like an owl hoots. If it is an owl, I imagine he's saying good night. Wake him at dark.

Bed has lost its comfort. I get up because I’m excited. I’ve the gift of another day.