My perfect morning:
Awake sometime between 7am and 8am. Make the bed? No, but smooth out the covers and leave things tidy. Who knows, maybe the cat will want to snooze there. Making the bed every morning seems so time consuming and purposeless.
Dress for the weather. Make coffee and breakfast. Feed the cat. There must always be a cat, because cats are the center of the Universe and they take it with them wherever they go. They are liquid wisdom, plotting your increase of experiential knowledge at any moment, ready to purr an I-told-you-so. One cannot be fully human without a non-human to keep one humble.
Outside of my home, because my perfect morning requires a home, I will sit and take in the atmosphere of beginnings. I’m not too greedy: my livings can be small, economic, and most of all, possible to clean. I have neither need nor longing for a mansion. A porch will be appropriate, complete with swing or rocking chair. Here I can sit with my coffee and notebook, setting my intentions for the day by listening to the wind blowing through the trees. Like all intentions, they are meant but sometimes not achieved without judgement. Intentions are allowed to be hindered by realities and unexpecteds. Hard goals are too often failed — must-dos missed are judged pathetically. Intentions guide — Promises demand.
I will need to do some creative furniture making. If the weather is expected to be warm, and I can sit outside to do my morning’s intended work. I’ll need a solid chair, desk, access. I can write as the sun climbs up past the canopy of the trees. Or I can go inside. In my perfect morning, in my perfect small space in the universe, I will of course have a library / office. A den. A true Living Room for me. Inside will be a work area built to satisfy every imagination-needy braincell I have. Either place, I will wave at any passersby and chat with neighborly visitors.
My den will be oriented to a window. I base this on a memory: I used to walk to my commuter points down a particular street, returning the same way in the evenings. Every evening, I would pass a craftsman house, white, with a well-kept front lawn. In the window, at a desk, sat a lady of accomplished years. We would wave to one another. I always imagined her as a writer, connecting with the world through that window. After a while, she wasn’t there anymore, because time moves us grudgingly on. Yet, she lives, if only slightly, through my memory and it has stuck with me as a hope that someday I too can touch someone without a single word but only a glance and a wave, sitting at my writing, sharing hope that there is more to life than treading on the wheel of others’ fortune making.
Caffeinated, fed, and motivated, I will then write. Or draw. Or paint. Or bring that old piece of furniture back to life. Perhaps today is the day I set aside the artistic and do the practical in my garden, fending off weeds and encouraging bees? Maybe it’s the day I go on a brief adventure? Or join friends for a familial meal, full of grace and good feelings? Or maybe … something I haven’t even thought of yet.
That is my perfect morning.