Mini-dramas. Small stories weave around my ankles in the early morning darkness. It’s the cats insisting on breakfast shortly after 5AM. And, it’s senior dogs needing to get out to the back yard for that first pee.
There’s a ruckus as cats jump off of furniture, use the bed as a landing pad before they streak down the stairs. It’s me carefully navigating around Jasper who is sleeping on his dog bed on the other side of my bed. I either stop over or around him as I feel my way out to the hallway.
Tessa has already bounded down the stairs at least once. As her small paws hit the stairs, that noise cues Josephine to stir herself up from wherever it is that she’s spent the night. Sometimes, she bunks in with my son. Other nights, she tucks into the couch in the living room. Sometimes, she burrows into my bed.
There’s an order to how the next 20 – 30 minutes play out. Most of the action takes place in the kitchen and the back yard.
The cats feast. One on the counter-top. One on the stove-top and Mac on the top of the refrigerator. I’m either outside with the dogs or inside grinding coffee beans – depends on my mood and how antsy the dogs are to get outside.
Jasper either joins us or sleeps in until after 9AM. Or later. Lately, he’s been up and demanding time outside and breakfast with the rest of the crew.
There’s an order to who eats where and when. Josephine and Tessa eat on either side of the baby gate that separates the kitchen from the rest of the house. Not because they don’t get along. Without it, Tessa would wolf down her food and then push her nose into Josephine’s food bowl.
Jasper bats clean up. When I’ve shooed “the girls” out of the kitchen and after I’ve mixed up his food, he takes his turn and his time, moving his head back-and-forth between the food and water bowls.
This is my early morning zen time where my body knows what to do without thinking about it as my consciousness hovers over the present moment. We all know our places and what happens at each stage of this dance.
It always amazes me how effortlessly everything happens. How quickly we execute all of the steps and traipse back upstairs against a backdrop of silence.
The animals bed down all over again. And, except for the sounds of my fingers tapping against the keyboard, it’s quiet again.
Such is the stuff of routine. It’s both anchor and kite string: it weighs me down yet sets me free. [gplus count=”true” size=”Medium” ]