Who would not remember chilly summer mornings in northern Michigan? Not the UP, but in Grayling where the scent that rises, from no matter where you are in Crawford County is of the river and the pines? How many hundreds of years ago where it washed and scented before the lumbermen and the Grayling fled to Canada? But still, on a heavy, dewy night you can stand outside your door and feel it all beneath your feet. Oh, Lady AuSable, we are baptised in your holy waters and to breathe you in, is to go back centuries. There is no perfume better than you art.
Sans Mickey D, the day begins gently. “Vicki, would you like to sleep until 8am or whenever your dreams stop?” Most days, with nothing but a virtual ‘snooze’ button, I just stay there. Pausing. Really feeling the wonder of the first dawn, the sounds, the breeze coming thru my window. Sometimes when my body lets me sleep, I slumber to the early morning birds doing roll call. I have a nest of Cardinals on my porch, and wrens who gave up on me ever providing them with the appropriate wreath, who now nest in my hanging baskets, safe in the knowledge there will be not many downpours from my watering can these days.
Lying back, in my ‘big girl’ bed, I lazily watch the lace curtains rise, then fall, then rise again, fluttering, strutting in the early morining breeze. It is like I am watching God breathe, undistracted, intent on breathing life into my body & soul. Like Papa has all the time in the world, to coax me, beckon me to a new day, new life. But I know, if the night has been haunted by those ‘amazing bubble plastic dreams’ of this disease, his soft gentleness will soothe my brow, fluff my hair and coax me back into sleep. And I accept it, gratefully.
Life isn’t always what we expected. Nor is God/Papa. Somehow we work things out, like a waltz, swaying in that morning wake up breeze. It is confusing who leads, but it is better when I just surrender to the music of the birds, close my eyes, his hand resting against my back, and just twirl. Feeling the beat of the earth, rich, motherly, nesting…
Papa? I’m here, always. Waiting for the last dance…
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