The tiny bubbles dancing in the kettle make my feet want to stretch, my eyes want to close, and I find my cheeks rounding into a lazy smile.
It's morning, again. I can hardly believe it. Another day!
It's morning, again.
The sounds get to me, wrap me up in their secret comforts. The lazy shuffle of our heels against the worn wood floor, making our way through the warmth of the house. Quiet words, whisper words. The heat clicks on and the gentle hushing keeps us cocooned, there in our sanctuary, our safest place.
The glug-glug-glug of the steaming water pours over the dark and lively coffee grounds, hitting the glass walls of this tiny little press. There is the faintest mumbling of the wind outside, low and steady. A bird is heard just outside the window and it chimes in to the melody-music of the morning, like joining a friend in double-dutch jumprope or merging onto a high-traveled road, windows way down and the sun blazing in. The bird sings out, and I notice it sings just because it wants to; just because it wants to. It's the middle of winter, but this bird sings its song of spring anyway. Almost, and kind of, like Hope. I think to myself that there's something to that. Yea, there's something to that and chills run down the backs of my arms.
I hear a car swoosh by out front. Followed by another. The world is awake.
Can you believe it? It's morning, again. We were never guaranteed these hours, these minutes, these sounds once more. It's like last night's warmest wishes of "sweet dreams" and "goodnights" were our birdsong of hope, singing us into the spring of the morning hours. Those good-night words are spoken and move us into the wonder of our waking. A reminder of what's coming.
I've heard the Divine whisper in my night; and again in my morning. The original birdsong. The One the creatures emulate. Have you heard it? You may not have even known it was the Divine. It's the Love who made your today. The One who keeps you, invites you closer and higher and farther in. I can't deny the whisper. Because when I wake, I see the magic of these morning hours and there's a weight to it that beauty-words cannot touch. It's more than I can take in.
The clinking of mugs steals my attention and I see my husband standing there in our little yellow kitchen. I love the way he looks, there in his slippers, sleepily going about the morning rituals. There is a depth of friendship with him, a kind that is understood when I see his I-love-you glance or his welcome-to-today smile. I watch the sun hit his hands and in the quiet, with love, he makes me a morning cup of coffee.
He doesn't care for this poppingly dark liquid himself, but he deeply adores the one who does. The room is full of breath-sounds and humming and peace. I get lost in my Jesus thoughts.
I don't understand the whole of who the Divine is, but I do know it is breath. My life-source. There's a comfort to it, like the comfort of sacred morning-sounds. I know God so much more when I listen. When I train my ears to hear all the parts of the piece. God is familiar and bright and the reason that these cold toes can scamper through my home each morning. With all my mind's waking wanderings, I find myself completely grateful for the way Love brought me into today, in kindness and generosity. I'm grateful for the small things, the normal things, that happen in a sleepy response to being alive once again.
Today is not spring, yet maybe it is. Because the today I see is full and satiated and bright with joy.
It's morning, again.