Thursday morning

I haven't found a new groove yet, not that everything is rushed or panicked, just not quite settled.  This morning, however, the house is quiet and I am the only one awake. I always enjoy these silent mornings. When G was away the mornings were my best time; nights were the worst.  But even before, before G would wake when I would wake, and wake me frequently during the night, I would rise first and enjoy the quiet time in the house, time where I could sit and reflect and let my thoughts wander, where life seemed slower and calmer whether I was engaged in some chore or activity or just staring out at the Hudson River letting my mind rest and wander. 

Even as I sit and write this however, I can see myself starting to itch with busy-ness, with that culturally inbred idea that it is time to get busy.  "The early bird catches the worm", "Time is money", these shiboleths still haunt me even as I realize that true as they may be, they are not always relevant to life or even necessarily desirable maxims on which to shape one's days.  "Slow and steady wins the race" or "take time to smell the daisies" come to mind, reminding me that sometimes what is important can be lost in the rush.   In my lifetime alone everyday life has grown seemingly exponentially faster, more rushed, more busy, more accomplished.  I am not convinced that we are better for it.

And here I am writing a post that is completely different from the post I intended to write and my time has flown.  G is up and restless following what was apparently a restless night, and Moisés and Sam have somehow managed to knock a painting off a wall.  The day has officially begun and I must go.