Morning Air
The warmth of the air in the downstairs living room embraced Monica as she pushed open the stairwell door and stepped out and onto the first floor landing. The coolness of the upstairs which was perfect for sleeping was left behind. In that moment she was reminded of the here and now, something she easily forgot in the chaos of it all. She was here and now. She took a long and measured breath in, a breath her very life depended on, or so she felt, and peace finally settled her soul, her shoulders dropped, her headache was nowhere to be found.
Her ever-urgent dog was wagging its tail staring at the front door. Morning routine. Last night Sadie had puked on the upstairs bedroom floor rudely waking Monica up out of a much needed sound sleep at 5:42am, Alexa announced to her, to mop up the yellow slimy goo with a wad of toilet paper before going back to sleep for a spell, a beloved hour of sleep as she hugged that soft and squishy pillow. Now downstairs, Monica pulled open the heavy wooden front door, recently and freshly painted the color of brick, as Sadie broke into a full on run out into the morning. She stopped mid sprint and started sniffing the damp early spring lawn, circling once or twice out on that giant expanse of green before squatting to poop.
Watching her neurotic dog, who her best friend and brother frequently joked was the reincarnation of her mom, Monica filled her lungs wide and deep, the chilly air shocking her sleepy alveoli, those little sacks where gas exchange happens deep in the lungs. It was the morning after yesterday where it rained buckets and for hours, which is exactly what her mood had felt like. The damp, cool and life-affirming air of this wonderful new morning was waking up her lungs making her feel like she could almost take flight as she watched her dog pee. Again she was reminded to take a moment, a peaceful and sweet moment to let gratitude settle all over her. She truly had much to be grateful for, ever balancing that with a feeling of guilt sometimes about having so much at this point in her life. But here she was, alive and well. She had her health. Her husband had his. Her brother and sister were doing OK. Her family in a nearby town were plugging along. Family who she loved and those she barely knew had had the virus and since recovered. Friends, family, and most people she came in contact with had enough money during this time of job loss, illness and death. Well, she wasn’t sure about one family member who had socially, emotionally, physically distanced herself, but she had faith.
Monica had found food resources during the pandemic at a local farm down by the river, at a brick and mortar fruit and vegetable stand a few miles away, and via a completely and predictably unreliable food delivery service. Despite the frightening newscasts that she now avoided warning that the food chain was going to hell and despite her granddaughter telling her she wanted to eat the last apple in the fruit bin because she might not get another, despite that which could terrorize her if she let it, despite all that noise making her head ache, she awaited an order of ugly misfit organic fruit arriving soon (shipping delayed due to the virus), with a sense of hope. Sometimes she felt like a misfit. A misfit in a bad dream from which she could not find the light. Sometimes the childhood she could not recall made the current moment that was already so difficult, almost unbearable. This moment in time, this time of some crazyass virus taking over the world, which she knew would pass but which felt like had no end, it was right there during those times that adding insult to injury her past memories would surface in the shape and form of feelings and sensations, rearing up like a crying child or maybe a wounded animal demanding to be heard. It’s always then that she’d start to notice her head pound, her shoulder, you know that spot just above your scapula, well that would start to ache and her heart would skip a beat or two or three. She was emobdying all that was from way back when.
Monica fed the dog and then moved onto her own morning routine. Once again standing in the open doorway between home and the world, the outside world she sometimes loved and often, now, feared, sometimes hated, she flung her used coffee grounds from her french press out and around the garden on either side of the outside stoop. This time she strained to hear, searched, found and then listened with joy in her heart as the birds were chirping their cheerful little good mornings to life, unaware of so much sorrow that lay deep under and around the world, and within Monica. The birds simply sang like they do every morning, despite, maybe in spite of what was happening in the world.
With another deep breath in, feeling thoughtful, and doing her best to be mindful she felt her heart renew and ease into a normal and steady rhythm. This too shall pass, all will be well, platitudes perhaps but truths perhaps as well.
All this she pondered and hoped for on that early morning in May.
