Morning Has Broken

         The baby was crying, the phone in her pocket trembling and ringing with that too loud ring tone she'd chosen, and the toast was burnt, stuck in the old toaster . . . again. 

     Well, first things first--she unplugged the toaster before the smoke alarm could go off, silenced her phone, and walked, no, ran down the hall to the baby's room. It was too early for an infant to be up and crying but apparently little Rosie had not yet perfected or enjoyed 6 hours of uninterrupted sleep

    Which of course affected her mother--and now her father because Maria slapped the bedroom door--hard--as she passed; it was her way of letting Norman that it was a new day, time to rise and shine, which she shouted just as her hand hit the door. 

    She knew he hated those words--I'm not shining for anyone--but, as she had pointed out more than once, it worked--better than any alarm clock. . . a bit of irritation gets you right up.  

    Rosie was standing in the crib, one hand holding the railing, the other reaching out in anticipation of her mother's sudden appearance, their early morning meeting choreographed down to the last detail: baby cries, smells toast burning, mother slaps the bedroom door, instinctive rumble from Dad, Mother appears, scoops up baby, both bodies warming the other, and they're off . . . morning has broken and a new day begun as Rosie snuggles her head into her mother's chest so they can both slow down and breathe together.

Fact of the Day

     "Look at this!" he said in that voice of awe and amazement that she had come to expect the moment she heard the soft rip of a new page in the Bird-a-Day calendar.  

    Look at this was his predictable burst of wonder at the infinite variety of just one species of the creatures that inhabit our planet. Today's "this" was a Stellar Jay, solemn and regal on a pale, un-leafed birch branch--sharp beak, perpendicular brown head feathers, and a plumb body clothed in feathers that radiated a deep shade of blue. 

    "Beautiful," she said, automatically, because it was true, always true, and this bird was particularly beautiful, and perfectly named--the Steller's (because it was stellar?) Jay was indeed regal and deeply hued. "I'd love one of those feathers,": she said. "It's blue, my favorite color--I could wear it in my hair."

    He smiled knowingly at that. "Those feathers aren't really blue."     

    "What! Look at them. Of course they are!"

    "No," he said. "No blue bird feathers are truly blue. They don't contain a blue pigment, not an all."

    "Right," she said, "so I shouldn't believe my lying eyes?"

    He smiled, nodded, clicked something on his damn phone (adjective mentally supplied by her ever time he raised the damn thing to prove a point). "'The vibrant blue color we see is actually a result of structural coloration where the microscopic structure of the feather scatters light and amplifies blue wave lengths. The feathers themselves don't contain blue pigments.'"

    "That's ridiculous," she said.

    "Yep," he said, "and true. The actual pigment in a so-called blue feather is a shade of brown."

    "And I suppose the red-headed woodpecker's feather is actually . . . what? Green?"

    He laughed, shook his head. "No, a red feather is red because of the red pigment in the feather."

    Which made no sense--a red feather was really red, but a blue feather wasn't blue? Her instinct was to continue to argue the point but, after thirty years of these conversations, she knew that he'd looked it up. and he believed Google (powered by an invisible, untraceable AI--too formidable opponent at 7 am on a Wednesday morning).

    "Hmmm, interesting," she said. "Coffee's ready."

    "Great--thank you."

    She almost pointed out that black coffee was really orange because of the way the molecules diffused light or some such thing, but restrained herself, (admirably in her opinion), and they both went back to their phones and the morning paper--which, or course, isn't a paper at all, but, according to AI, is a series of "radio waves that carry data generated by antennae which create oscillating electrical and magnetic fields that propagate through space."

All is Well

     It was a still morning, a quiet morning, and, most likely, a too early morning when she got up, but she didn't look at her watch or a clock. She just got up.

    Got up naturally, she liked to think, evidence she was tuned in, perfectly tuned it to her own circadian rhythm.

    People were not meant to live by machines she had said to Phil just the day before, and thought of it again when she went to bed. She even got up, unplugged the clock and put her watch in a drawer, then went back to bed, to see what would happen when she depended only on natural rhythms, the harmonies of her own body in the physical world it lived in.

    She would be quick to emphasize the "physical" experience of her world when she explained it to Phil, so he couldn't/wouldn't assume she was off on some new quest--which is what he would call it.

    Well, yes, she'd had brief flirtations with Buddhism, the Tao, and even Jainism, but had come to think, no, to know that each day, each hour, each minute, each moment of the movement and rhythm of planet Earth was all she needed.

    The stars still visible in the early morning sky also had their stories, their planets and rhythms, their days and nights--of course, they did--but she was here, on earth, her home, complicated enough for one lifetime of exploration, discovery, and love.

    Celebrate this day! Now and here!

    "So easy," she said aloud.

    "Too easy," the dark voice deep inside replied, automatically, unbidden, like a machine always dialed to Negative.

    But this morning she laughed, switched off that internal machine, and stood at the window a moment longer, in love with the last of the stars fading in the morning sky. It was more than enough. No explanation needed. It was enough.

Here Comes the Sun*

     It was as if she'd never seen it before, the sky before dawn, before the yellow ball rose, arc by arc, pulling day after it, the new day, that globe of possibility, with the gift of hope, of intimation of what could be next. The celebrated sunrise was clear proof of God, or, at least, the possibility of God, through the gift of everyday wonder, light that appeared unbidden, every day.

    So, she knew she should celebrate the sunrise, the promise kept every twenty-four hours but now, today, before the inevitable happened again, before it appeared, all she could see or think about was the beauty of the purple sky--not dark with the black of night or the soft blue of day, but a brightening hint of what was coming. It was as if the sun behind the curtain was preparing the daily gift of light just for her, new light, dependable and inevitable, the next verse of everybody's song.

    Yes. That's it. The beginning of a song, a story, a poem; a day's slow dawning that felt more like love than tragedy, more like possibility than despair. It was a gradual beginning, from the barely conscious moment after sleep until she became herself again, fresh from the mystery, from unremembered dreams that were as real as life when they happened, that had been an event and were now a mystery.

    Really? Who knew? Or needed to know? Nobody.

    So, again, she woke into the new day, an everyday day, a day that was enough, that was just right that was fine, and she said, as she always did, "It's all right."

*With a bow to Paul, George, and Ringo 

(Google says John wasn't on that track)

 

       

Bird Tango

It was a yellow bird, a bird with obvious discernment and taste, evidenced by its portrayal on an azalea bush. Artistic, even: the deep pink of the azalea announcement of spring emphasized by the bright yellow bird. Obviously a boy bird because the males are always brighter, more deeply hued, right?

Well, she should have paid attention . . . somewhere. Her first thought which made her laugh. Always her first thought: the litany of her ignorance, Should have . . . should have . .. should have ... Where should she have paid attention? Nobody learned bird names in school, not even in high school science.

What about college? Avians of the World? World Fowl in a college syllabus? Nope. Not even Common American birds and fowl.

So it wasn't her fault. She'd have to buy a bird book herself to get the information. The damn Bird a Day Calendar he gave her offered no information, just pictures of boy birds. But what about Google--best friend Google?

AI Overview: The Common Yellowthroat is a small warbler, typically 4.3-5.1 inches long. Males are easily recognized by their bright yellow throat, black mask around the eyes and face, and olive-brown upper parts. Females and immature birds lack the black mask and are more olive-brown overall.

Of course. The females are more olive brown overall. Which meant that the birds featured in the Bird-a-Day are all male, not just the Yellowthroat. 

Figured.

So now what? Toss the calendar? Make her own female bird a day list, focusing on salient facts, nest building, egg incubation, endless sitting, insuring the survival of the species, while the male just brings food and wards off predators.

       Just?

       Oh.

       Okay. 

       It takes two, like so much in life.. . .takes two to tango . . . even for a common yellow bird.