Maybe That’s the Point

A few morning thoughts on paying closer attention.

5:52AM

I sit on a grey two-seat outdoor couch underneath an eleven-foot cantilever umbrella that’s protecting me from the light spring rain. I don’t do it every morning, but I do enjoy the slow boot-up into my day. It’s a quiet prelude to the normal morning chaos.

Getting multiple kids ready and out the door for school is rarely smooth.

As I sip on a cooling cup of Yamamoto Sencha I start to tune into my surroundings. My yard is teeming with activity and wildlife all fighting for finite resources and limited territories.

What feels calming to me might, from another perspective, be pure chaos, with stakes far higher than anything I’ll experience today.

A house sparrow dive-bombs onto the nearby outdoor dining table where we eat meals when the weather permits and the mosquitoes aren’t too voracious. I quickly glance in its direction, perhaps too quickly, because just as I make eye contact with it, it flutters off to the nearby grass pasture to join some friends hunting for grubs and worms. A few seconds later, they all fly off in a frenzy to the thirty-year-old holly tree across the property.

A squirrel runs along the neighbor’s chain-link fence, perhaps chasing its mate or close friend. He was certainly what startled the house sparrows.

Canadian geese honk overhead in loose formation, scanning for the next patch of nearby lake to churn for algae. I’ve never been particularly fond of these birds, mainly because they’ll occasionally wander into my yard to forage on the grass, leaving behind their wet, lumpy cigar-shaped excrement waiting for a toddler’s bare foot to find.

A pair of mourning doves coo back and forth to each other in what sounds like courtship. I wonder if they will ever find the courage to meet face to face and maybe go foraging for earthworms together?

I hear a commotion in the side yard and spot a quartet of squirrels chasing each other around in circles. It looks like our duo recruited some friends.

Light rain patters on the top of the cantilever umbrella in a steady yet unpredictable rhythm.  If you sit with it long enough, the sound splits into layers. A deeper, more consistent thud hits the plastic base behind me, while another taps in sharp staccato onto an exposed cushion.  I should probably move the cushions before the water finds its way through the waterproof cover.

If I listen closely, I can hear the faint knock of a woodpecker working on an oak tree at the end of the street, just past the bus stop on the lake. We don’t always stop to look, but some mornings you can catch it sitting right there in the hole it’s carved out, exhausted from a hard day of manual labor.

Suddenly the more subtle sounds are drowned out by the wheezing white noise of the boiler, kettling the way it always does right before the house shifts into motion with showers, breakfast, and the scramble to get everyone out the door.

What even is that noise?

I hear it all the time, but I’ve never really stopped to ask what it is or why it sounds like that. I do a quick Google search. Turns out I probably should’ve asked sooner. I add a note in my phone to call the HVAC tech.

A school bus drives by to pick up my neighbor’s kid, right on schedule. I check the time even though I already know it’s 6:42 AM. It always is.

What an awful time to get picked up by a bus.

I wonder what time they have to start getting ready for school, showering, making lunches. I silently come to the realization that my nine-year-old and I, by default, are only two years away from that reality.

It’s probably time for me to wrap things up and start waking the kids.

The rain has stopped.

The yard begins to quiet.

The drip from the umbrella slows.

Maybe it’s going to be a nice day after all.

A shadow cuts across the sky and I glance up at the silhouette of a hawk or an osprey. I can never tell the difference. I’ve always meant to learn more about the local birds but usually just end up taking a blurry picture for ChatGPT to try and identify later.

It’s colder than it should be this time of year. Upper 50s, maybe low 60s. I don’t mind it. The cool air clears my head and helps keep me focused. There’s something about this slow boot into the day that makes everything else feel more manageable.

I sit for one last minute, taking it in. Squirrels, birds, rain, distant traffic, the faint hum of a house waking up. It’s all moving, all humming along, whether I’m here to notice it or not.

But this morning, I was here. I paid attention.

Maybe that’s the point.