November morning

Ah, and today I did.  I woke in the light, went for a long walk with my dog.  Of course, the lapidary azure days of late October have already hissed away, and it's almost mid-November.  My section of Minneapolis begins increasingly to resemble the neighborhood I fell in love with my first days of marriage almost a year ago: the skinny trees, the frostbitten lawns and windy alleys, the pearly grey sky with streaks of shouting blue.  In this wintry monochrome setting all pops of color gladden the heart.  In a similar way, slow mindful mornings like this rejoice my soul in the whirling monochrome of my busy days.  Waking in the light.  Bundling into my winter coat and mittens.  Watching Janie snuffle ecstatically at the edges of lawns and curbs and the trunks of trees, and then leap ahead, tail wagging, to the next big smell.  Inhaling the coffee scent in my cozy home upon our return from an indulgently lengthy walk.  Warming my fingers in the sudsy kitchen sink before settling into my devotional time at the dining room table with my coffee mug and a slice of jam and toast.

I know.  Even now time is escaping.  Ten minutes and I'll be driving to job one of two, and before I know it, the day will be over and I'll be returning to bed.  And no more waking in the light, not for awhile.  But waking in the dark, leaving my groom asleep in our bed, walking the stunted half-block with Janie before I grab my things and drive to job one of two, seeing the stars and being a part of the fellowship of early risers on my city block, each of us with our cars fuming to warmth on the curb...that is a different sort of gladness.  The gladness of diligence and stewardship, of building a life, of earning my keep and my sleep.  It is part of what made today such a delicious gift.

Day by day, I'm keeping my difficult balance in this beautiful world.  Singing as I go.

"Letter To Gail"--Or, as I would subtitle it, "Variation On The Book Of Ecclesiastes"

Barbara Crooker

You write, "Where has the fall fallen?"
and how time is escaping, leaking like a hiss
from a blue balloon.  Outside, the sky
is that lapidary azure of mid-October.
You rush from meeting to board room,
while each day the leaves shift
in color and tone, red-orange, green-gold.
When you turn, they've already fallen.
You write that you would like to stop working,
but phone messages and faxes pile up on the floor.
This air, so cold and clean you could bite it,
like an apple.  All of our stories have the same ending.
Still, we drone on, little bees, drive while listening
to voice mail, drinking take-out coffee, trying to do
too many jobs in too few hours.  You say you'd like to wake
up in the light, go for long walks with the dog, not answer
the phone for months.  Outside the window, the unreachable
sky, the burning blue fire.