In the quiet dawn
It’s three in the morning and I am wide awake! There is no point thinking that I can just roll over and go back to sleep. Husband used to fall asleep the moment his head hit the pillow. But I can’t. The darn female hormone thing! Only solution: let it happen, go with the flow, get up and check out the world.
The white cat in the neighbourhood is having a snooze in the middle of the side road. She suddenly springs up to catch some imaginary beasty in the air, pure ecstasy in motion. Like a ballerina she flies high, smiling at the quiet dawn. And then she’s gone, springing behind the rose bushes, out of sight in pursuit of another adventure. Sitting in the porch, pondering the silent street, what a perfect time to contemplate.
In a world filled with mayhem and dismay and pessimism, I think we all long for an oasis that celebrates enchantment, serenity and hopefulness in ordinary things. Let’s face it. Most of us aren’t going to accomplish some grand achievement on the planet. Most of us aren’t going to become famous. Most of us aren’t going to make it into the history books. But that’s not to say our life isn’t worthy. Quite frankly, I am more grateful knowing my kind neighbours ‒ like the one who mows my lawn and shovels my snow ‒ rather than some prominent politician, high-flying financier, or popular celebrity. Not one of them offers anything to help make my life more pleasant.
I like living on this gentle street, where ordinary people lead extraordinary lives that no one really knows about. They each have their secret struggles that won’t be recorded for posterity. Only they and their families will carry their stories in their hearts. And every now and again, they will do a random act of kindness which someone will remember.
The sun is rising in the east. The birds are singing in a crisp, clear chorus. The two fellows from somewhere down the road are off to work, walking with their Tim Horton’s cups of coffee as they do every morning. The lady in the next house has just come home from her overnight shift at the seniors’ home. The fellow beside my place drives away in his van to prepare for the morning breakfast call at the local hotel. It’s six o’clock. Time for breakfast.
Adapted from my “Echoes of Footsteps