This is what I call my early day: the dear ordinary. Nothing is tugging at me in my cabin mornings. I drink of the nectar of the day. Sit still in the awaiting. The awaiting of what comes. The “before,” prior to the naming of things. It’s anterior, brazen . . . this that comes forward and finds me. Yet not presumptuous. This is a response, intimate with longing for what comes before my invitation. The call.
The dear ordinary is polite. And patient.
It is what is there before I welcome anything at all—modest, unassuming, and exceptional—the astonishing made ordinary. It is the atmosphere of my longing, the ether, the timber, the feel of presence.
Being simple. The dear ordinary come out of complexity. The sun’s rise and the light years before the dawn.
I lose my memory, or better said my “tracking” of it. It is not stalking me. There is nothing there, before the day begins. No antecedents, no precedents, no standards, no practice.
And out of the ordinary, the astonishing quietly comes forward. There’s a murmur, a hum, a crooning. And I begin to rock.