Sometimes, actually more often than not, when I awaken at night I have to pee...oh the joy of prostate problems. Before I awaken, somewhere in a dream state, I feel the bladder pressure building. It is not unusual to be aware that in the dream I have to pee. In fact I may actually be in a dream bathroom ready to relieve myself. Then realities shift and I am awake. I recall those similar scenes from my childhood dreams, the difference being then I wouldn’t wake up until it was to late . . . woops wet bed. Some times I wonder if that will start happening again, second childhood and all. No sense in worrying.
This morning was one of those abrupt shifts in reality. Our cabin bedroom is very dark, I hear Sandy breathing softly. I slowly roll my side of the covers back and slip out of bed, careful not to awaken her. I open the bedroom door and then quietly shut it behind me. The front room is still warm from last nights fire. I turn the light on so as not to stumble in the dark. I still have to pee. I head for the front door and the covered porch. Careful, don’t let the screen door slam.
It is still dark, I can just barely make out our goats and horse in the pasture, nuzzling the snow to get at the young spring grass. The cold air on my naked body intensifies the need to pee. I squeeze my penis as I take the few steps to the porch railing. . . ah. A steaming yellow stream on the fresh snow below. I take several deep breaths, inhaling the cold, damp, predawn air. I stretch, shaking the cobwebs from a groggy brain. There’s something about standing naked on one’s front porch, looking out on the silence of a new day breaking. Maybe its just a guy thing.
I go back inside and put on a shirt, socks and long johns, then I turn on the coffee maker that I ready the night before. The sound of its perking is some how comforting as I build a fire in the wood stove. Simple tasks, but meaning full, full of meaning. I turn the lights out, open the blinds to the big picture window and await the dawn in the light from a warming fire.
Looking south from our cabin, the valley widens in the foreground then narrows to the south. There is a "notch" formed by spurs of the eastern and western hills that advance towards each other. Within this notch sits Mary’s Peak. Elusive in her presence as clouds swirl past on their journey from the coast to the Willamette Valley. The night’s snow fills the valley and dampens any early morning sounds. No frogs this morning. Spring daffodils push their sun yellow flowers into a wintery field. Fir limbs laden with their white blanket, wait in hope of the warmth of a spring sun to set them free. The first light is soft upon the meadows, it bings no warmth, but chases nights shadows away. Thought:
"Morning light softens the land as it unfolds in mist and fog."
The peak is obscured by clouds, then glistening white as they open to the pale blue dawn sky. The valley swirls with light and clouds. Each moment brings a new wonder. Nothing static. Change upon change, wonder upon wonder as time and space unfold before my eyes. Like a mind filled with thoughts, each competing for attention, so the wind erases the scene of a brief moment before, only to sketch it anew yet different. Thought:
" Spring time strains its birth pangs as winter’s death grip gives way to life."
A Redtail Hawk glides by the window, within its talons is breakfast. It alights an alder down by the creek and begins its feast. The coffee is done I pour a steaming cup and sip the aroma. The two of us, hawk and human, sharing a morning ritual that the other can not fully appreciate. Each has its experience and perspective, unknowable to the other.
The light brightens and amorphous shapes take on definition. A distant dark shadow becomes a horse or a cow. The polar opposite occurs in the last glow of evens light. Thought:
"Somber is the color of the hills as the valley descends into night."
I ponder that last sentence in light of birth and death. Birth being the morning of life in which the amorphous takes shape. Death being the extinguishing of light (the life force), the eternal sleep of night.
Some might find that nihilistic, morbid, even fearful. Not me. What was it Mark Twain said? Something like; "it didn’t bother me the billions of years before I was born, don’t think it will when I die." If this is it, all the more reason to wonder, be filled with wonder, while I can. Enjoying the beauty of each moment. As the Buddhist’s say: "Be here now." After all there is no other time but the present. This knowledge makes every moment precious. Being precious causes one not to label moments as good or bad. It brings a profound sense of awareness to every situation. A knowing that this too shall pass. So savor it, then let it go and in the letting go savor the next and so a lifetime passes. What a wonder filled gift.
Rogert Pirsig in his classic book, Zen and the art of motorcycle maintenance, puts it this way: "The past cannot remember the past. The future can’t generate the future. The cutting edge of this instant right here and now is always nothing less than the totality of everything there is."
Get your mind around that and life becomes an awesome adventure into the unknown. Every bit of it tingles the spine with shivers of excitement, talk about orgasmic. This is the gift, don’t take it for granted, open your minds eyes and your heart. Life is to short to miss a single moment. Thought:
"Like a window shade the rain and fog filter out the dying light of day."
