The Ordinary Sacred

Photo by Daria Tkachenko on Unsplash

Kassie is tucked beneath the back of my knees this morning, breathing softly in the ice cave I’ve created by cracking open my bedroom window. I cannot sleep without access to air and the sounds of the night. When you plug your smartphone in to charge, that’s what happens to my being when I open that window. Without the mystery and lullaby of darkness, I suffocate.

This morning, I awoke before sunrise to a gift…the owl who lives near was calling outside my window. At first, I noticed subtly, then, like a snooze alarm that crescendos, I became certain. There is something about the key they call in, something that feels like a direct download to my soul. I lay there longer, letting the transfer complete.

Kassie, like me, feels no urge to get the day started. We lay in bed long after everyone else is up and at it. Grief and concern are trumping my to-do list today. And for once, I honor it.

When we were younger, open time and margin weren’t something we scheduled, they were the schedule. School and chores were fit around the margin, a reverse-margin if you will. Now, as I’m getting older (and here’s a funny side note, yesterday I told you, and my Uber driver Robert, I was 54. I’m 55. I’ll be 56 in just a couple of weeks. Quinn and I can’t even remember our anniversary correctly half the time), margin has become the thing we have to fight for.

Today we have no parties, no gatherings, no places to be. Just Quinn, me, and the dogs…until our middle daughter comes over from 8-9pm for dinner and to pick up her baby. These days, we take whatever time we can get, whenever we can get it.

There’s a very plump female cardinal at my writing fountain as I type this. I smile. I can relate. Only I think she has a good reason, I think she’ll be a mother in the spring. Still, I delight in her size and her joy in a clean drink of water.

Our well is working again. We have water. It reminds us all to be grateful for the ordinary things. And I would add, for ordinary days like today.

The owl knew what it was doing this morning. It called me awake not to do, but to be. To notice the heating-pad warmth of a dog’s body, the plumpness of a cardinal preparing for spring, the simple miracle of water flowing freely again.

Maybe this is what it means to get older…not forgetting how to live in the margin, but remembering that we have to claim it back, one unhurried morning at a time.

Cheers.

xx,
Victoria