Wednesday, September 8, 2010
My time on the front porch, I've decided, is some of my favorite moments of the day.
This morning, Watson perused the yard for delicious strands of green grass along the sides of the fence and down the short driveway, and back again. I wore my snuggly striped pink pajamas (because it's been cool and stormy all week) and my seasoned pink sweatshirt. "Seasoned" because it is the very same sweatshirt I wore in the highlands of PNG. After bringing me comfort in such foreign lands as those, it never fails to bring me comfort on a cool, stormy day. I was sipping Cafe Verona from my favorite Autumn-ish mug, a nice deep yet bright red with faded brown rim, and wearing the hood of my sweatshirt up to make me feel mysterious (and maybe to not scare any unsuspecting neighbors who have yet to see me without makeup or shower).
Sitting on the porch this morning was a most savory visual experience. Everything wet. The roof dripping with its heavy drops narrowly missing my mug. The bareness of the ground peaked through between leaves and grass, with such a smooth, glassy bareness, a smooth translucent glow, I almost wondered if a light was shining from beneath it. The leaves, wet and black, lay on the ground in scattered clumps here and there, wearing the tell-tale signs of the changing seasons, the passing of summer.
The air was wet, but clear. After the rain, the air feels like such a relief, that a new beginning is upon us. The storm is over. The summer is past. The seasons have changed. Everything is changed. And how very thankful I am. "I was a long long way off, and I think I like how the day sounds through this new song..."
"The sky is as clear as my mind is now..." (Greg Laswell)
At one point in our outing this morning, Watson began to wander off beyond the yard in search of greener grass ("The grass is always greener on the other side", it would seem) and failed to respond to my reprimands. I lay my coffee cup down on the porch so that I might chastise him thoroughly. He immediately responded and trotted back to the porch. As he neared the mug, I began to panic at the thought of Watson knocking it over against the concrete porch and breaking my cherished mug. Upon reaching the mug, however, he merely gave it a gentle sniff and began to attempt a few licks inside the rim. I snatched it up, only slightly disappointed at that last cupful being ruined, but much more thankful that the mug was preserved. The incident put me in a mood for Mississippi John Hurt. I am not often in such a mood, but it seemed like the perfect moment for "Coffee Blues". The light strumming of the guitar is always soothing, and once I begin to listen to his deep, rich, husky voice, I am compelled to listen to more of it. Something about his music conveys to my soul that God is good and there is goodness in this world (through Him)- beautiful, sweet goodness.