First bright spring flowers break the monotony of brown leaves and old hickory nut shells.
As a lifetime “morning person,” I treasure unblemished early hours. I am increasingly grateful simply to wake up, to find myself able to move and (eventually) to think. Early sun as spring turns to summer enhances my jubilant mood. Stepping outside to hear birds and wind, smell flowers, view crystalline scenes is wonderful even if it happens to be raining.
Increasingly, I realize I know nothing about the true meaning of reality or being. So I simply give thanks for another experience, amazed at the miracle of consciousness. Little things _ familiar or not _ impress me. I am comforted by routine, but often adventurous enough to stare closely at a daffodil or closely observe as squirrels steal bird food.
Sometimes beauty comes wrapped in scent, much less prevalent now that hybridized flowers are primarily grown for display.
Unlike some of my peers, I relish losing control. The future is way beyond my grasp, the present is only held together with spit and baling wire, the past is gone and all I can do (which is a lot) is to forget the bad and remember the good. When it all ends, as it must, does not much frighten me. I’ve had a good run. I have some chores to accomplish, but nothing to shake the world.
But morning still allows plans at least for this day. Where shall I go, what shall I eat, who should I contact. In fact, I remember well how hard I laughed as a young person that the only thing elders ever seemed to do was worry about their next meal. Not laughing so much any more. I do not envy those making long-term plans, and I pity those who try to manipulate the universe from beyond their graves.
Daffodils are dramatic enough even without late afternoon light effects. For many of us, these are the happiest blooms of spring.
Morning is bright and cheerful and filled with promise. Aches and tiredness are not yet manifest, the residual issues of yesterday can be put off for another hour or so. I slowly sip coffee and enjoy absolute peace and quiet, before the inevitable cacophony of modern industry begins to shake the house, fill the atmosphere with harsh noise, and obscure the hills with the dust of “progress.”