I enjoy the silence of the morning, after the house has cleared of school children and husbands bound for important places, I don my winter slippers - the ones with large stuffed bear claws my eldest decided were too small for him last Christmas - pull the puppy up beside me and watch the birds fighting over the four openings on the new birdfeeder I've hung. In a few months, I'll be able to open the door and listen to their chatter, but for now, all I can hear are the soft snores from the older dog as she sleeps at my feet, no longer able to jump up on my lap, and the noise the air conditioning makes when it kicks on in the morning, which I always mistake for rain. This morning starts out cloudy, the sun doesn't invade my solitude and chase me off of the sofa and into a shadier part of the house. The dogs are disappointed. They enjoy a morning sunbeam, but there's always tomorrow for them, and the next day. Their days vary by who sits home with them each day. Today it's my turn.
When I was younger, I looked forward to activities taking me away from the house - a kayak trip, a movie, a trip to the grocer's - but now I'm content just to sit. Perhaps it's the three days a week I've committed to working outside the house that makes my silent mornings so comforting, or is it the constant noise from competing TVs, voices, dogs barking that overwhelm my senses most days. The house is too small to find a quiet place, so I have learned to exist amongst the chaos.
When I am older, will I remember those days with fondness, miss the chaos the way I miss the smell of an infant's head, or the touch of tiny hands holding on to my neck? Will I sit quietly with my dogs watching birds waiting for rain later in my life and long for the noise from a sport's commentator on the television.
Time changes our expectations. It smooths out the rough places in our desires, and makes homebodies of us all. If you'd have told me I'd prefer a quiet Saturday evening at home one day when I was twenty, I'd have said you were crazy. But weekends, now, are for books, and naps, and visiting with friends. And weekdays - my favorite weekdays - are for the birds.
When I was younger, I looked forward to activities taking me away from the house - a kayak trip, a movie, a trip to the grocer's - but now I'm content just to sit. Perhaps it's the three days a week I've committed to working outside the house that makes my silent mornings so comforting, or is it the constant noise from competing TVs, voices, dogs barking that overwhelm my senses most days. The house is too small to find a quiet place, so I have learned to exist amongst the chaos.
When I am older, will I remember those days with fondness, miss the chaos the way I miss the smell of an infant's head, or the touch of tiny hands holding on to my neck? Will I sit quietly with my dogs watching birds waiting for rain later in my life and long for the noise from a sport's commentator on the television.
Time changes our expectations. It smooths out the rough places in our desires, and makes homebodies of us all. If you'd have told me I'd prefer a quiet Saturday evening at home one day when I was twenty, I'd have said you were crazy. But weekends, now, are for books, and naps, and visiting with friends. And weekdays - my favorite weekdays - are for the birds.
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