Laying in the darkness studying my sleeping husband and listening to his rhythmic breathing trying to combine it with the far off train rumbling through the Midwestern countryside as a sleep seducer. It does not come. For now sleep escapes me, so I arise.
I am now sitting in my living room at the end of the wobbly table that has become my perch/office 4 days of the week. I am wrapped in a Buffalo checked hand crocheted blanket that is my favorite with my heater/fireplace turned on for warmth as it is only early March in Illinois. My sweet dogs are keeping me company as usual. The oldest dog Pippa who is nearly 13, came to us with a bed. An old gray bed when we adopted her a year and half ago. We have never gotten rid of it and she has a ritual, at least once every evening she drags it out and beats it around the room, chewing and slapping it about for a few minutes then she walks away. As if it is her inanimate playmate. But there are those rare occasions that she actually lays in it. I can recall the number of times on one hand when she has laid in her bed. Tonight is number 5, there is something very cozy about her curled up in her bed and it makes me glad we chose to keep it and not replace it with something new. Old comfortable things are often the best. Old well worn sweatshirts, soft faded jeans, a favorite hat, an old rickety table all things that bring us comfort when we need it. As she lays there sleeping looking a little like a pup I can imagine how sweet she was then because she is incredibly sweet now. My other companion Nedda is laying on the couch under a blanket I tossed her way because she began to growl and it’s too early for that kind of expression. She must like the weight of the blanket because it has remained on her back and she quietly snores from beneath it.
So much is going through my mind but first and foremost a growling stomach, so being a health nut I grab a Girl Scout trefoil to quiet the hunger. I would make cheesy eggs but it’s a bit early for breakfast, unless you are a farmer.
As I stare at the roses on the table that have survived for nearly 2 weeks and are still thriving, which for roses is as if they have an extended warranty. They are lipstick roses, white with just a hint of the pink around the edges, most fully opened with the exception of that one stubborn one in the middle of the arrangement. It remains tightly bound to itself. Maybe roses are like humans.
Some of us are tightly wound and we don’t let anyone or anything penetrate our armor, we don’t share secrets, we stand stoically alone in the center, ruler of our kingdom. It’s safer that way. Others of us are in full bloom, perhaps meaning that we are fully open to life. Or perhaps it means that we have just lived more life because we are older, wiser. Perhaps the petals of the roses are like the experiences of life, the bud of the rose being our birth, and the petals push out with each new adventure until we are in full bloom. I believe that roses are like people we all bloom at a different speeds and our full bloom may indeed only be a few petals because that is all the blooming we need, others continually burst forth with no end in sight. These are the kind of things I ponder at 340 am.
May your day be filled with roses and sweet companions.
Until Next Time,