This morning I woke up and my view was gone. (Well, a few mornings ago—since apparently writing a post, uploading pictures, posting and maintaining sanity are not all readily available in the same day.)
We haven’t been here long but I’m becoming immune, careless maybe with the view. I’m forgetting some mornings, many mornings, to breathe out thankfulness for the way the field lays open, every day wheat stretching taller, more golden, reaching for that open sweep of summer blue sky. I forget to notice the way the earth lays flat like a map with grid roads for creases and if I but step beyond my fence there is nothing to stop the eye but sky and wheat and wheat and sky and this long line of fence like bystanders, witness to the way seasons change subtly and the heavens hang low, open and blue, every single morning. And I forget.
I forget to say thank you, forget to drink it in, bow head instead over risotto stirring, stirring. I bow over the sink full of dishes, bubbles metamorphosizing to mud puddle murk. Scrub, scrubbing. Or if I lift my head to watch, it is to patrol the mob of kids in the yard, not rejoicing in tanned skin and sinew and just the right count of grubby toes and fingers and laughter. No I wait for cries of injustice, pain, step out under that summer sky to chide. Careful please. Let’s share nicely. Come on—how many times do I have to tell you?
And the worst consequence for them is having to sit, sit while everyone jumps and rolls and they squirm with what has been taken away.
And this morning I sit, watch the heavy fog hang unmoving, like a curtain. I brew a bit of tea in my bird mug, the one I save for nostalgic mornings only, let it steep until it is thick like syrup, fill the rest with ice and milk and sit on a towel outside. Every surface is slick with condensation, the heat heavy, air thick.
What is the fog? I ask. What metaphor here? Some kind of pain, I predict or else, something seasonal and passing. But its not about the fog today; it is about what is always here and what I always miss except on days like today where I can’t see it at all. The loss startles me.
It is my own, this fog. My fog is a thickness of distraction that lays heavy, a sheet over all I could count and number as joy.
I sit, squirm a little like a child. How many times? Careful, please. So slow to learn.
I want to notice what I have before it is gone, being alert to the radical beauty of routine. There is divine right there in the dust, reminding us all of our origins, of what we can become in the right hands. My toddler stumbles outside, still half asleep, buries his sleep sweaty head into my shoulder. We watch a sudden flock of birds settle on the neighbour’s fence, then scatter into the lifting mist.
This morning I am thankful for the blindness that brings with it sight.