There's something so satisfying about getting out of bed when the
world is still dark and quiet and resting. Making the coffee gives
us time to scratch and think. Well, scratch, anyway. Most of that
thinking will start after about the third cup.
But it's a quiet
time. A private time. When the world is dark, and there isn't yet a
hint of pink over the eastern mountains, it's very good. We can
relax. No one is expecting anything from us right now. Our guilt can
take some time off, and we can listen to music or work a crossword
puzzle or turn on the TV and watch the weather guy discuss millibars
Soon enough, we'll have to be out there living for others: our
bosses, our customers, our animals, our fields. But right now no one
needs us except the dog, and she does well on kibbles and an
occasional drive-by ear rumple.
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We can look out the window at the eastern glow and wonder what
will happen in the hours until our world turns dark again. People
will be born and people will die. People will win honors and people
will go to jail. People will create things today that live past them
and people will disappear forever. People will write about these
things and other people will read about these things.
And then the world will go dark and dormant on us again and we'll
think about what happened in our tiny portion of this huge moving
amalgam and hopefully we'll sleep easily tonight. Then, when we
arise tomorrow and head for the coffeepot, we can think about what
happened today, and how it has made us slightly different for taking
on the next tomorrow.
Come to us, daylight. Bring us the new day. But do it gently,
please, and slowly enough for one more cup.
[Text from file received from
Beethoven never heard his Ninth Symphony,
but you can. It begins with a free hearing test. Beltone.