I awoke with the earliest of songbirds this fine morning, when the rooms of my home were cast in that blue light I so adore. It pulled me from bed and out into the naked air for a quiet saunter amongst squirrels and American robins.
Now I sit on my front porch watching the world get brighter. The steam of my coffee must like the air as much as I do, for it swirls and dances as they meet. Gramma’s piano record is spinning on her old record player. She would have loved this old house. The porch is tucked under a broad overhanging roof so typical of the bungalows in this area. Faded paint on the old wooden floor boards reminds me of that crayon called indian red. I think they renamed that color of crayon, but it remains a color for me. Some things placed in a child’s mind don’t leave.
The air is cool but not cold. Finally it is comfortable to sit outside in the early morning. My open door lets the piano drift outside ever so softly into this world, where slowly the number of people creeping from their homes to their cars starts to grow. The world is waking up. I hold a secret from this outside world, as does the bicyclist I saw almost an hour ago and the man with his dog who said hello earlier as I walked by them.
The world was still then, almost like the set of a movie. Aimless. Idle. Content. Those words always remind me of a poem by James Whitcom Riley, one I first read at 16. This is the time of year when rising before the sun means rising before most others. I walked down the rows of old houses thinking of the sleeping, dreaming bodies in each.
Now, the sound of more cars pierce the air, and I can feel my special blue light morning slipping away. I cling to it, begging it linger on. “Linger onnnnnnn. Your pale blue”…. light. Oh Lou Reed.
The lingering of morning is what I so love about the mountain’s forest. There the blue light hour drifts on and on in both the morning and at night. High peaks block the rising or setting sun long after it has come or gone, stretching time into long fibers of existence. And some wonder what’s to love about waking up beneath the trees.
This weekend Jon and I head into those mountains, first east and then north before circling back towards the west and then south to home. We will ride the Cascade range, crossing over and back, sleeping with the stars and waking before the sun. The promise of nature and adventure and wilderness and love tickles my mood until I bring myself back to this moment now, for this morning here and now is just as precious as any other.