Part of that, I'm sure, is a direct result of loving to read so much that I can't make myself put the book down in time to get all the sleep I need. Another part comes from love, too, love of this "nest" I've made for myself. It's nothing fancy, but I hate to leave it to go to work each day. I hate the rushing around to get ready for work, and I hate the inevitable morning traffic. I'd prefer just to cuddle my dogs and ease gently into the day.
I drive home from work on the interstate, but post-Katrina traffic makes it impossible to make the necessary left turn to go that way in the morning. Instead, I take a back road, a little two-lane country road that winds along the banks of a canal. The parish I live in (if you remember your geography lessons, you know that Louisiana is the only state that has parishes instead of counties) hasn't had much in the way of zoning ordinances until the past 15 or 20 years, so this little road takes me past beautiful new homes, tumbledown shacks, industrial sites, a baseball park, a cemetery, a golf course, a falling-down trailer with rusty old cars and trash all over the yard, a well-kept stable, and one bar whose name was painted on the front in the handwriting of its owner. Scattered throughout this hodge-podge of manmade structures are patches of natural beauty.
I never look forward to my drive to work, but once I've turned off the main road and onto this one, it gets better. I know every little twist and turn this road makes. I know where I'll see the goats on the far side of the canal and where the geese will be gathered, and I know there are a few places where the early morning light will shine so beautifully through the trees that I'll be glad to be awake in spite of my grumpy self. It's that glorious light, more than anything else, that pulls me out of a sleepy fog and helps me make peace with the morning.
Morning Has Broken
Morning has broken like the first morning,
Blackbird has spoken like the first bird,
Praise for the singing, praise for the morning,
Praise for the springing fresh from the world.
Sweet the rain's new fall, sunlit from heaven,
Like the first dewfall on the first grass,
Praise for the sweetness of the wet garden,
Sprung in completeness where his feet pass.
Mine is the sunlight, mine is the morning,
Born of the one light Eden saw play,
Praise with elation, praise every morning,
God's recreation of the new day.
As sung by Cat Stevens,
(Lyrics by Eleanor Farjeon)