Coffee with Anne Dilliard, Carl Sandburg, and Me

With respect to Anne Dilliard, whom I never cared for as a teenager when forced to read her observations of Tinker Creek, and with a nod to Karen Werkenthin, who (although she was said imposer of Ms. Dilliard upon me and my peers) remains one of my favorite and most influential teachers of my incredibly average yet somewhat lengthy academic and writing career, I find myself in a Dillardian mood this morning. If this is worth reading, thank Karen and Anne - influencers before "influencing" was a thing. If it was a waste of your time, then the fault is with me and me alone. I would apologize in advance, but as we all know, a pre-apology is no apology at all. Ergo, caveat lector - let the reader beware. 

If you are not familiar with her work - Anne's, not Karen's - or simply not much of a reader, may I offer an alternate idea for you. Do this now, while mornings are cool, with just a nip in the air, enough that your ears will tingle and your fingers feel the chill, but not so much it's uncomfortable. It's springtime in Texas; summer will be here soon enough, perhaps within days, so enjoy this while you can and then lament it's passing until it returns in six to eight months. 

Get up one morning before sunrise - now that the time has changed, it's not nearly as challenging - and brew a pot of coffee. When it's done, grab a jacket, your dog (this works best with a dog, but can be done sans canis familiaris), and go sit outside. Please note: I did not include your tablet or phone in the list of supplies. Just mug of coffee, dog, and a jacket. Go outside and find a place to sit. If you live in the country, you may want a flashlight to check for creepy-crawlies, stinky-winkies, and RIFAs (if you are a fan of The Princess Bride, this should bring to mind ROUSes, Rodents of Unusual Size, but RIFAs are just red imported fire ants) so you don't get an unwelcome surprise. 

Once you have found your place to sit, get comfortable, and just be still and listen as God's creation begins to awaken to sing its song of praises to the Lord. Perhaps the branches rub together in anticipation of the sunrise. Birds begin their various choirs of interlocutionary harmonies: starlings, sparrows, a cardinal or two; some rapid fire chirps, others long whistles, some with light "pip-pip-pip" sounds like soap bubbles in the tub, and the soprano "who-who-a-who-who" of a mourning dove.

Meanwhile, on the eastern horizon, the light show begins. Black begins to turn grey; grey fades into blue, then pink, and then orange. Where the orange pushed the blacknwss westward, the sky becomes an unnamed shade. Col. Roy G. Biv, inventor of the Crayola 64 pack with the sharpener in the back, which was the envy of every child in the 80s, would have a hard time matching this hue. It's not blue, it's not orange. Brassy isn't right, nor is ombre. I might just call it "morning." 

As morning marches onward, it's future a bright and cloudless manifest destiny of the sky, condensation drips from the roof into small pools below and you can see the dew on the grass, thanking God for the moisture. The peach tree offers it's flowered salute as the light begins to shine on its bud-laden branches. The sky flows brighter, a whiteness back-filling as the darkness advances to the rear. 

In the distance, fog, as Sandburg taught us, much like a sleeping cat, rests patiently in the valley, just visible above the treetops, whisps stirring in the light breeze, rolling like a silent sea. 

Two squirrels bark at each other, a lovers' spat over who is making breakfast from the winter larder, or who left the seat up, or whether the roll of leaves goes over or under, or whatever it is squirrels argue about in the morning. Dew lightens on a spider web, micro prisms of color dancing as light, water, and breeze, gently collide with each other. 

Next door, parents drop off bleary-eyed kids. Car doors slam. Teachers monitoring car line grip their coffee or energy drinks like it's a lifeline. Kids shrug into their backpacks and walk towards class. Parents turn up their podcast or playlist and, with a fast wave at the kids who are no longer looking, head off to their 9-to-5. They are all too busy, or too tired, or too frustrated, or just "too-ed" to enjoy the morning. 

But I hope, one day - one day soon - they can stop and, if not smell the roses, they can at least hear the day awaken. It's beautiful.