Rambling about the morning routine of an Ole’ Southern woman…

My day begins with a wake-up call, though at my age it is less of an alarm and more of my body saying, Yep. It’s time. Move those old bones, woman. I seem to wake at about the same hour no matter how much sleep I have, or have not, gotten, and no matter what noise the world makes as it chooses to unfold.

Sometimes it is the dog barking. Sometimes a chirpy little bird nudges me from sleep, singing away on my porch as if the morning belongs to him. And every now and then, my mutt Jetson gets a bit like a toddler and decides that if he needs to be up, then I do too. Either way, I ease into the day with nature… the call of it, the song of it, or the creak and groan of an old woman who knows she needs to move.

Once I manage to put my feet on the floor, it is coffee, devotional time, and prayer. That stretch of morning is mine alone. I sit and watch through the window while the world wakes outside, finding the trees, shadows slipping away, and the acres slowly coming into themselves. It is my Zen-soul time.

At this stage of life, I require that quiet. I need time for my soul to wake, my heart to find its rhythm, and my mind to settle on what matters. Then I write. Writing is as necessary to me as the praying, and the infusion of caffeine. It is another kind of devotional, a way of listening for what has been tucked into my heart overnight.

Once upon a time, I felt the need to hit the floor running. Those days have mostly passed. Now, after my old parts are all lubed up and my soul begins to itch for movement, I take a walkabout around the acres. If the weather will not cooperate, I settle for porch time, a little music, and some old-woman dancing through the house to loosen me up. There is no audience, and that I am sure, is probably for the best.

Only then do I begin the day in earnest. I tend to the chores, consider the errands, talk with friends, and take my place as ringmaster of the family circus… the job that seems to be the mainstay of life at this age. I am the matriarch, the mom, and the sister to the Kid, my youngest sister. She and I are all that remain of my nuclear family, and that truth sits quietly beneath the ordinary business of each day.

Most mornings begin with, Jesus, take the wheel. Somewhere along the way, they move into, I Won’t Let Go, and, when necessary, Don’t Play with Me. From there, the day wanders through trials and tribulations, joy and amazement, the whole beautiful, bewildering mix that waits for all of us.

There is nothing hurried about the way I meet the morning
now. I have learned that a day does not have to be conquered before breakfast.
Sometimes it simply needs to be welcomed… with stiff bones and hot coffee, with
prayer and ink, with a loyal mutt, a porch-side bird, and enough grace to begin
again. The world will make its noise soon enough. For a little while, I let my
soul wake slowly… and I call that time well spent.