The morning comes early . . . or more precisely, I wake up before the dawn, unable to sleep. Listening to the rain, listening to the birds who begin to sing in anticipation of the light.
Sitting, watching the rainy morning lighten, I see the rhododendron across the street. Last week it was magnificent, in full bloom. This morning, the flowers that remain are wilted, sad, tired. The detritus of last weeks blooms litter the sidewalk around the the little tree.
The cats are at their most antic, chasing one another around the house, or perhaps searching out the phantoms of a fleeting night. They wander through the living room to say hello, but don’t stop to visit: too many things to do before the morning truly arrives. The night is their workday, and there are things to be done before the humans take over again.
Another morning, another day, full of possibilities, good and bad. I stand looking out over the valley of the day to come, seeing the outlines of the day, but the day is shrouded in fog, its details obscured.
I sit, wrapped in a blanket like a tallit, minding the coming of the day. My attention is my prayer.